To The Moon
And, like a dying lady lean and pale,Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,Out of her chamber, led by the insaneAnd feeble wanderings of her fading brain,The moon arose up in the murky east,A white and shapeless mass.
Art thou pale for wearinessOf climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,Wandering companionlessAmong the stars that have a different birth,And ever changing, like a joyless eyeThat finds no object worth its constancy.


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In the quiet between heartbeats a whisper calls you home, you are not broken you are becoming. These threads of silence and sound are letters from the threshold, offerings from the edge of stillness. Nigel  TEA AND ZEN - MAIN LIBRARY



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