What am I sensing,
that I cannot yet name?
Perhaps this sensing stirs first,
beneath language—
a pulse in the roots
before the rain arrives.
Maybe it’s the hush before recognition,
the body knowing
what the mind is still fumbling toward.
Light gathers behind the eyelids—
a scent, a tremor, the faintest chord—
the Word attempting to breathe through me,
asking only that I listen.
Something wants to be born here:
not an answer, but a presence.
I will wait, hands open,
until the weight of it
discovers its own voice.
And when it comes,
it may not be a word at all—
perhaps warmth rising through my soles,
or the taste of salt
at the dawning edge of day.
Perhaps it will arrive
on the whisper of wings
brushing an unseen threshold,
or threaded through the low hum
of belonging that trembles, ever eager
for expression, in all living things.
I will know it by its stillness,
by the way the air leans close,
by how the heart steadies,
recognizing its rhythmic beat
in the potential now hidden
within the vast expanse
of the unspoken.
Dawning of the Day ~ bj 2025
What an amazing verse Bela.
For me , the verse captures the sacred moment between awareness and articulation — that liminal space where intuition ripens before thought dares to define it. It reminds us that wisdom often stirs not in words, but in the quiet pulse beneath them — a knowing that precedes understanding. The poet seems to listen not for meaning, but for presence itself.
But if I were to look at the verse through the lens of poetry and spirituality, I would say it is a tender evocation of becoming — of something holy struggling toward form. The poem listens to life’s earliest murmur before language finds its footing. It is in that hush, that still trembling space before expression, that we meet the divine pulse of creation — where silence and being are one.
Stay well.
Shakti
This is beautifully stated, Shakti. Not enough due is given to liminal spaces. 🙏♥️