Sunday, November 10


Understand the way grass blades embrace the wind:
That’s how I’m waiting to feel . . .
The wind, frightening in its potential,
Is, to the grass, the only thing real.

Belief in the silence of the purest shaft of sunlight:
That’s all I’m asking to hold . . .
Whispering from the skies, glowing on the leaves,
The sunbeam’s life purpose is told.

Mimic how drops of water collect light in the darkness:
That’s what I need to do . . .
Despite their short durations, the droplets
Know how to make one beauty two.

Gain admittance past the quiet boundaries of your nature:
That’s where I wish to go . . .
Our blood is bound by what we sense;
Enchantment makes it so.

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