She who loves roses must be patient and not cry out when she is pierced by thorns.

Sweep the garden, any size, said the roshi. Sweeping, sweeping alone as the garden grows large or small. Any song sung working the garden brings up from sand gravel soil through straw bamboo wood and less tangible elements Power song for the hands Healing song for the senses what can and cannot be perceived of the soul.

She who loves roses must be patient and not cry out when she is pierced by thorns.

When you died I didn't weep nor dream but knew you like a god breathe in each healing we begin.

Even when I cannot write, I know I am still a writer, just the way I know I am still sexual even if I have not had a lover for many months.

Days I kept busy with fractured angels' client masquerades.