We return,
eventually,
to what we love
and find solace
in the heartache
and bliss
we have found
in creating
We return,
eventually,
to what we love
and find solace
in the heartache
and bliss
we have found
in creating
The sky had packed up the stars
And taken the bus down Highway 11
Because nothing would ever be the same again
The birds are singing through the rain
I know their song
For I will praise Him in the storm
No matter how long
Mind goes blank
The searing pain
Twists through my
Muscles like a knife
There is a wide, wide field
And there are a hundred thousand stars
And there is a patch of cool, damp grass
Will you away with me?
There is a deep, deep lake
And there are schools of fish and flocks of birds
And there is a space where the water is thick with life
Will you away with me?
There is a warm, warm room
And there are a pair of mugs with breaths of steam
And there is a blanket big enough for two
Will you stay with me?
The rain falls
Inconsequentially
I was not going out today
It raps on the roof
And sometimes the windows
But I will not let it in
I prefer to be alone today
Since there is no audience I know
So well as myself
I’ll write for me
And since I am human
I find
That I am writing for every one
Who has ever been human at all
Perfection is the death of art
I am returning
To the soft rest of listening
To the deep and sweet
Repose of that unfocus
Which is being
And under the same sky
And carried by the same wind
I return to find Him
Where He has always been