To be is perfect joy.
This is why flowers are speechless.Each petal reveals the ancient secret.Creation is not a Word.
You could be a wild iris seeded by stray wind,bursting by a ruined fence beyond the empty barnwhere pigeons startle and flash in dusty sunbeamsstuttered through chinks of warped cedar.
Don't try to say it.
The passion in the fragrance of evening shadowsis all that matters, boding good rain.
There is a gaze through whom silence spillsfrom mirror to mirror its useless beautyin streams of not pretending to know.Be like this.
At day's end, feign no more wisdom
than when you awoke.Trellised on that ruined fence,bend under graces of weightless sky,entwined with every weed of revelation.
Flower without trying, and be wild.