Counter Part

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Counter Part

Details: Thursday, 20 March 2025; Written by Eve Moore; Views: 2223

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

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—Jimi Hendrix

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

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