We sigh when someone directs us:
Don’t think. Then thinking is all we can do.
Still. Don’t think. Or try not to.

Just open, preferably under a sparkling
blue sky washed clean after so much rain,
as so many trees have loosened their roots

and tilted, seemingly ending their existence
with a big crash, opening to the horizontal
after so many years of verticality. But who

knows what transpires after such a large
life appears to end? Perhaps it’s an opening
into forever. Perhaps, if you allow the top

of your head, right at the seam—where an
invisible thread once sewed you into this body—
to expand the merest bit, and wait, not thinking,

perhaps that’s when eternity creeps in and
begins to sprout, rooting you in forever-ness,
calling you beloved.