The sound of falling snow

And once more I dream of a Tokonoma *. My foot leaves the ground as I step upon the small raised platform. It is quieter here than in the space behind me— the hush of meditation, of contemplation, the stillness between breath drawn in and breath released. Something stirs. A feather-fine breeze grazes my skin and turns my gaze towards the wall before me. Again I lift my foot, yet this time I rise entirely,
suspended within an image, a picture, a still life that gathers itself around me.