By Charles M. Sumid Copyright 2025 Written 2025 520
BASHŌ:
listening to morning stillness This grove— even the leaves hold their breath
before speaking.
CHARLES:
I’ve been coming here for months, trying to understand what they’re
waiting for.
BASHŌ:
settling against an oak
Perhaps they know
something we have forgotten: that silence has its own
seasons.
CHARLES: Like the space between raindrops just before
the storm breaks?
BASHŌ:
Ah—you feel it too. That weight in the air
when everything prepares
to listen.
CHARLES:
kneeling beside a moss-covered stone Even this moss grows in the quiet spaces where nothing
else can reach.
BASHŌ: The smallest things require the deepest silence
to flourish.
CHARLES: I watch people fill every pause with words, afraid of what might unfold
in the gaps.
BASHŌ:
touching the moss gently What do you think they fear
finding there?
CHARLES:
Maybe themselves. The parts that don’t need explaining, justifying,
defending.
BASHŌ: The pond reflects perfectly only when its surface remains
undisturbed.
CHARLES:
sitting back on his heels You’re suggesting silence isn’t empty space but… full space?
BASHŌ: Feel how this morning breathes. Not absence— presence without
agenda.
CHARLES:
Like the moment between question and answer when truth has room to arrive?
BASHŌ:
nodding slowly Or between heartbeats, when the body remembers how to trust its own
rhythm.
CHARLES: I notice my mind wants to fill this conversation with more words.
BASHŌ:
smiling And yet you resist. This is already
practice.
CHARLES: The hardest part is learning when
not to speak.
BASHŌ:
placing a small stone carefully The stream knows exactly when to sing and when to flow
in silence.
CHARLES:
watching the stone settle Teaching without
teaching.
BASHŌ: The deepest lessons arrive on their own
schedule.
CHARLES: Should we
sit quietly
for a while?
BASHŌ:
closing his eyes We already are.
They rest in the grove’s patient stillness, learning the art of listening to what speaks without words.
Gallery of Charles 