my whole core is empty
why are you not here?
a single reed standing amongst dead flowers
why are you not here?
there is
no candle left in the pot
the wax extinguished by All Your Light
which has come and gone
like the whistling waves who transfigure out on the ocean
oh single wick, wave, reed, burning her farewell
we are not lost in these winters.
Your abundant grace is like a juicy shadow keeping my place for summer.
I know you well.
like a quill in the ink well
Your jubilant letters have arrived
but I have folded them back into coffins
and let your rapt voice quit my openings.
I have let your rapt heart become the prism
through which all things come
and I have avoided its myriad of Light
in all forms.
I stop writing...
... for what is this beauty?
something comes so miraculously and I
am busy writing.
I must put down my pen -- to see it.
Observe its Beauty.
whistle at the Glory in my soul's own seeing.
I know Joy.
not from writing.
But from seeing what these words are trying to convey.
not the writing, but the meaning.
the way the sand has made its own pattern and the dead brush is quieted and muted by the stone day.
or the reed, which is not separate
from all this pen's lifting.
But my eyes which see most dearly into the heart of the world -- that Void-- which you have given, holds me.
and it is not me who is empty
But the very nature of you
giving me something
giving my always the fertile recipe to awaken.
I Love You
Your Beloved
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