To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward.
Wake the happy words.
How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.
I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.
Being, not doing, is my first joy.
The self says, I am; The heart says, I am less; The spirit says, you are Nothing.