I become a waterwheel, turning and tasting you, as long as water moves.

We carry inside us the wonders we seek outside us.

If these poems repeat themselves, then so does Spring.

We are as the flute, and the music in us is from thee; we are as the mountain and the echo in us is from thee.

I turn all thorn then, but you come back again and make my thorniness fragrant and pink and petaled.

To wander in the fields of flowers, pull the thorns from your heart.

Raise your words, not your voice.