Thursday, August 8, 2013


There is a world beyond this world.

There is a way of seeing that has nothing to do with your eyes.

The light of the moon rises to meet you.

The mist on the lake rises to meet you.

You walk as if your shoulders were wings.

Love goes before you, making a way.

Grasshoppers never leap mistakenly into the path of cars.

The tractor never crushes any snakes.

And the doe in the far field sees you watching and returns to her grazing, unalarmed.

All of this belongs to you, and waits only for your yes.

That one syllable is in your throat as I write.

It is like a perfect stone or a drop of water through the sun shines at dawn.

It is as vibrant as the heart of a hummingbird.

It longs to be uttered.

It can never be lost.

It is the means by which the gift of the real world is at last made manifest.

And by which the old tired and broken world is healed at last.

My love, after so many lifetimes of resisting, would you finally speak it that I, too, might know the gentle country of your sacred and beautiful heart?

For the roads I walk are grown dark indeed.

And the many graves voluble.

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