My words catch in my throat . . .
All the years trying to explain
the spirit's wishing, this wishing tree,
dropping seeds foolishly upon
the common ground, this life, uprooted,
carried for meaningless distances
groaning in thirst.

Is there a center to this emptiness,
a place where all the nonsense becomes
relevant? Will I ever see anyone
as they are? Will anyone ever see me?

Sometimes truth is bearable. It proves
its worth. The delusions drift apart,
and the sun bursts through the seams. .

The heart is alone --
in every conversation the unspoken
haunting the fragile distance
of the unspeakable, voice falling back
upon silence.

It strikes me that every seed must
surrender, crack open and die,
into life.