The black cobblestone floor of the Rothko Chapel shifts as if it’s an ankle-deep creek.
This is likely an artifact of my aging eyes.
I spent some time wondering: why black? And it became the insides of my open eyelids as I prayed
though some panels also flowed like water.
It could be a via negativa, a cloud of unknowing—
It might not hold only sorrow, or solemn—
nevertheless the space doesn’t seem interested in any bubbling delights I
brought in with me
but especially engaged in my silence.
(More about the Rothko Chapel here.)