Month: September 2026

i turned around and you were there—
staring. you wore green like me,
though much brighter, 
with turquoise trousers

in a blur you were gone—
four lucid wings
trailing a dragon’s tail

swift and measured,
your flight accelerated,
halted, and reversed
without a hitch—
skimming the edge of the pond

O darner, your veined wings
are maps of an ancient sky

what is it about mid-September that i love to 
remember?

the feel of crisp air and warm sun against my skin– 
to close my eyes and inhale September in a single breath

listening to the song of leaves gently strummed by a steady breeze 
and the falling colors against the sky.

the calm glow of the canopy as the sun settles.

the soft stillness in the afternoon wind
a quiet fulfillment flooding my senses.
and a moment among trees, i wish would never end

and what of the creatures that fly or crawl upon the  ground
the raptors, swallows and blackbirds beginning their southern flight 

the fading fields of green speckled with dying leaves,
or the dark humus beneath, where new life breeds

the sweeping sound of “hush” all around–

and what of this moment i have finally found

by K. Osei

how sweet it is to sleep.  

to bathe in darkness through the night  
and rise refreshed when dusk uncovers light. 

to feel the stretch of tendons  
and ligaments–  

a mind clear of debris—  
empty space full with possibility.  

to motion through a field of silence  
observing the beginning of each sound,  
while holding the mind steady—  
allowing a thought to drift by.

an overcast sky, 
the lingering scent from the morning rain–
the clapping leaves from a gentle breeze
and to withdraw a single breath from the ether.

by K. Osei

A bowl is purposed for the water it holds, the home for the life it shelters. Form gives boundary, but emptiness gives meaning. True value resides within the hollow places, the uncluttered spaces through which creation is permitted to emerge. A full vessel cannot accommodate the new. There must be an opening.

The exquisite design adorning the outer surface of a vase can be quite a spectacle to behold, yet it pales beside the mystery held within. The space surrounded by the vase is full of capacity. The structure of things—the vase, the room, even the woven fabric encircling the air of the balloon—all pledge their allegiance to the vacant space they embrace.

Lao Tzu likened the space between heaven and earth to a bellows: empty, yet inexhaustible; the more it moves, the more it brings forth, for emptiness is not deprivation. It is capacity—the condition by which the formless becomes manifest through that which has no form; where emptiness proves itself to be infinite capacity to receive, and an inexhaustible supply to give.

Centuries later, physicist David Bohm would propose something similar; reality as an undivided whole whose visible forms emerge from a deeper order. He called this the implicate order: a reality in which what appears separate at the surface remains enfolded within something more fundamental. The visible world—the explicate order—is not independent of the invisible but an unfolding from it.

The resemblance to the Tao is not equivalence, but echo.

One speaks from ancient metaphysical intuition, the other from an interpretation of quantum theory, yet both invite us to question the sovereignty of form. Perhaps the visible and invisible are indelibly integrated. Perhaps manifestation is less an act of creation from nothing than an unfolding of what is concealed.

Where Lao Tzu speaks of emptiness, Bohm speaks of enfoldment. While the propositions may differ, when viewed side by side, they inspire a common thought:

How much of what gives form to the visible world is itself invisible?

The vase offers no answer.

It simply stands before us—form surrounding emptiness, the visible embracing the unseen, its usefulness depends upon the void.

And perhaps we are not so different.

The empty spaces we seek are everywhere: between one pulse and the next, between breath and breath, between thought and action, action and response. Yet we rush to fill them—with memory, anticipation, judgment and explanation—as though an unoccupied moment were somehow incomplete.

Perhaps the opposite is true.

To inhabit a moment without immediately filling it is to become, for an instant, like the vase: bounded but open, formed but receptive, emptied yet full of possibility.

There, the finite does not disappear.

It simply makes room for the infinite.

by K. Osei