When I cannot be with you my feet begin to search for a wide, quiet space to silently circle just as yours are doing now, for the gentle rhythm of left foot, right foot in breath, out breath treading our way into silence.
At the appointed time when I cannot be with you this body finds a cushion to rest on, knees touching earth, hands cupping peace breathing the air of our one sky.
In the space of no-thoughts the well of Being sends up its purest, refreshing springs, and you, and you, and you and I can drink.
We feel ourselves lifted, an unnamable buoyancy. The tug of some fine, thin thread connects us each silent prayer a golden web fine as spider silk, invisible as air. On it we can throw the entire weight of our lives.
It is here I rest wherever I am when I cannot be with you and it is the appointed time.