into that sweet and articulate space

Of silence and newness
A cello string struck to humming

The purposeless awakening
To all possibility

The knowing and unknowing of
What is to come

Prescient and blank
Dual and delighted

I am breathing very slowly
Tasting the air across my tongue

Every inhalation
As vast as the sea.

Categorized as musing

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

1 comment

  1. I shouldn’t call either pizzicato nor col legno striking; and for, a string to hum, you can only draw the horse hair bow.

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