what remains underneath

There is always something that stays.

Not obvious.
Not always seen.

But present.

Beneath the movement.
Beneath the change in light.
Beneath what rises and falls.

For a long time,
I followed what was shifting.

Trying to understand it.
To steady it.

But the more I looked,
the more I began to notice something else.

The field does not rely on what passes through it.

It holds
what remains.

—

Sometimes it is only a feeling.

A slight sense of ground.
A quiet steadiness
that does not need to announce itself.

—

Nothing needs to be added here.

Nothing needs to be resolved.

Only noticed.

—

These days,
I return to that.

Not what is changing,
but what is still there
when everything else moves.