Solitude of Nothingness

A hat on a peg, and outside the cabin

the stars prick through the latticed leaves

and clustered seeds of maples fall in pale drifts.

Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold, 

you become a self that fills the four corners of night,

thoughts arranged like paint on a high blue ceiling

while wings rise up without a sound––

outward and outward to the nervousness of twigs.

And precious stones keep watch.

The dog breathing at the foot of the bed, 

the deeper notes of life are coming now,

When they come, the landscape listens.

And when white moths are on the wing

of doves in a silver-feathered sleep,

Beauty unveils His exquisite form

in the solitude of nothingness.

© 2025 Linda Rittenhouse

This cento was created with a grateful nod to:

Billy Collins, Jessie Belle Rittenhouse, Louise Glück, Sara Teasdale,

Wallace Stevens, Arthur Rimbaud, Wendell Barry, Emily Dickinson,

William Butler Yeats, Walter de la Mare, Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

First published on Medium.