Crossings

Between forest and field, a threshold
like stepping from a cathedral into the street--
the quality of air alters, an eclipse lifts,

boundlessness opens, earth itself retextured
into weeds where woods once were.
Even planes of motion shift from vertical

navigation to horizontal quiescence:
there's a standing invitation to lie back
as sky's unpredictable theater proceeds.

Suspended in this ephemeral moment
after leaving a forest, before entering
a field, the nature of reality is revealed.

"Crossings" by Ravi Shankar

This poem came up on the PBS Newshour blog and I wanted to share.

That is all.