Evening sinks us into softer spaces.

     Day’s edge blurs, while moon’s dissolution makes all shades melt together in fluid amalgamation. Everything flows with harmonic phases.

     Grief becomes love, and sad becomes tender, and despair becomes hope, as our hearts become ghost dancers honoring the sacred of all of life’s schisms. Crickets chirp and frogs whir and somewhere in jungle’s midnight, ancient hymns begin to play humming and pulsing in sacred grove rhythms.

     They are light songs of deepest truth, if you learn to listen.

     Spelled out through star’s ink, scrawled in the stems of the clean evergreens, sustained by the growth of the banyon trees. Singing, seeking, embracing, and teaching; sweet music that hearkens we embrace our own living.

     Reminding the miracle of breathing and being.

     The moon hides her face as she travels to void, yet soul casts light when vision wanes. The ancestor’s watch as the cycle turns night, the ghosts they dance in endless pace. Spectrals of peace who honor what’s passed, keeping time with the beat of the magic and grace.

     Everything fades in eve’s soft in-between, until nothing is left ‘cept for love’s endless face.