I don’t understand the sudden turn-arounds…
how things can come all inside out
as if to mock my deep heart’s truth,
the pure innocence of being.
What answer except this silence?
Always the silence.
How pregnant is the still pool of being?
And why does it seem so reticent to speak?
In spite of everything,
am I willing to dip my clay cup again
into the silver essence
with trembling hands
and stretch my tongue once more
into pure Being?
My heart whispers… yes.
Again and again and again…
Pages: Visual Poems and Wisdom
Find Posts by Categories