Return

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

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

The birds are singing through the rain

I know their song

For I will praise Him in the storm

No matter how long

Blank

Mind goes blank

The searing pain

Twists through my 

Muscles like a knife

Will you?

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?

Inconsequentially

​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

Human

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

Perfection is the death of art

Returning

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

Surrender