Between the Worlds on the Day of the Dead

Sense the turning
at the top of your breath.
No longer inhaling,
not yet exhaling.
Sense the turning,
the very moment of abeyance.
Sense the turning of the weather,
of the day,
of your feelings.
Sense the constant turnings,
doorways
into change. Play, oh play,
you embodied Traveler, you!

To secure your balance in the turning,
Lean into it, the moment
the movement.
No scarcity here, the moment
is always available.
Sense the turning when breath
is between, when nothing is graspable.
Hooray, no foreclosure
on openness. No period
at the ‘end’ of the sentence
Sense the turning of the seasons
now, when we are between the worlds.

©Susa Silvermarie 2023