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.)