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Counter Part

Counter Part

Counter Part

 
It hides until
we seek its
missing.
 
Missing from
a scope we deem
to be what,
exactly,
we are.
 
When it is only ever
an approximation
at best.
 
Adam's fingers reaching
forevermore to god's
across the span of a
ceiling whose paint
holds more than
meaning to
the reach.
 
Like understanding itself,
once you find its edges,
it reconfigures shape,
contour,
gist.
 
The tide
never repeats
the line it draws
again and again
on the shore.
 
Still, we cannot help
but fix our grasp in a kind
of 'place'—like a living
world on a globe—so
that we can pry
petals and knots,
hemispheres and
riddles apart.
 
I speak of this idea of twin.
A flame burning our
thick brush of
solitariness
as personal
pronoun.
 
Many speak of it as an
other in form we quest
to complete our own,
quite apart from the
material sense
of matter.
 
What if it
is found only
in that most
inscrutable
of places:
betwixt
the liminal
reaches of
our rays.
 
The shadow
whose contrary
medicine keeps
our rudders true,
our timbers sound
on this cosmic flotilla
mothering our whole.
 
Keeping our sights unmoored
in its range of potential
borne of holy clay
whirling, not fixed.
 
So much depends on
the tail of a comet, the
dreams, the hopes,
the wishes—if
you chance
its trace
against
a pitch
of night.
 
It is spring equinox
in the arctic leaning longitudes.
A day, a moment, when mother earth
shows us the profound nature
of balance in equal parts
difference.
 
Congruence.
Harmony.
 
How her dark holds
so much—as much—life as
that which emerges now
to meet our star's light,
our pupils' dilation.
 
Holding her cycles with
soft, open fingers.
 
We see the spring of shoots,
the rise of sap, the plump
of buds as reborn
 
when they have been
taking shape in the
recesses the
winter long.
 
One 'half' belies
its wholeness
as portion
of/to the
other
 
—a share.
 
Endlessly
apportioning
its aperture
to see what
can be seen
—and not,
outwardly.
 
Like climbing Everest
in an effort to be both
great and small,
remembered
and incidental to
the massive rise of
marine limestone
once a shallow sea
some 450 million
springs ago—
as we count.
 
We are
made
entire
 
a completion
intended to shed
its skin, bear its
heart, offer
its pollen
 
not as loss,
but intrinsic
multiplying.
 
Quanta
that know no
bounds.
 
Decompose =
recompose.
 
There is no
indelible ink
scrivening
existence.
 
Clock-wise
countering
clockwise
 
as north
is to south,
east to west,
sunshine is to
moonbeams.
 
Our center
cannot hold,
 
it was never
meant to
stand still
 
or alone.
 

∞|∞


© Photo: Eve Moore Eve Moore ©2025
Eve Moore:
 Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well. 

For more of Eve Moore's amazing and heart centered poetry and writings, click here! 
http://www.crystalwind.ca/eve-moore

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix

This poem/prose was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.


© 2025 CrystalWind.ca & Author | All Rights Reserved | No reproduction without permission | Awakening Souls Since 2008.
#CrystalWind #SpiritualJourney


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