I want every image to be the beginning of an unseen image.

And you would accept the seasons of your heart just as you have always accepted that seasons pass over your fields and you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

For in truth it is life that gives unto life-while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

And before my Soul took me to task I was hard of hearing; I heard only tumult and uproar. But now I am all ears listening to the silence and its choirs singing the hymns of time, intoning the praises of the firmament, revealing the secrets of the invisible.

For what is prayer but the expansion of your self into the living ether?

If winter should say, 'Spring is in my heart,' who would believe winter?

But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind and then is heard no more.