A hand reaching,
across a table,
no agenda concealed in its palm,
no desired outcome fluttering
like a bird in a cage.

Only the space closing,
skin meeting skin,
a silent current flowing,
unbidden, unexpected.

Not to gain,
not to fix,
not even to comfort,
though comfort may unfold
in the quiet that ensues.

It is.
A gesture stripped,
of calculation,
and of the relentless chorus
of why.

In that naked simplicity,
a resonance.
A weight that comes to rest,
not heavy, but authentic.

Meaning unfolds,
and discovered,
like a vein of gold
buried in the plain stone
of existence.

Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.