There are days in June that seem to be December.
Thus sometimes the substance of this room
or more accurately the people in it who pray silently
start up in the midst of happiness and alter,
bewitched by a murmur from the calm foliage. Our hearts are shifting as the winds
changing,
pliable as gold. See this windless sail,
motionless?
Almost before one feels the subtle breeze,
it stirs up
and slips away.