It should be locatable, somewhere
but it’s not on any map; no legend contains a symbol for
what it feels like to be
that dust mote in a sunbeam, dancing,
refracting honey across the universe, safely entrenched,
buoyed, lit up,
each self-fulfilling movement both yearning and completion.
If you study how a raindrop caresses a tulip petal, it might
show you how to get there, or at the very least,
the gentleness required in petitioning for access.
It requires the kind of honesty you find only in silence,
when the rhythm of the tide or universe has lulled you into ineffable awe
that you cannot grasp, can only hold as a breath,
and multiply by letting it go.
It is a trip best begun by melting, or evaporating if you can -
things best or only done inadvertently,
like when love or trust trips you
and you land at last
to see that it is us who manifest the space
inside the safest truest place.
by request, for etouffee