Live in a perpetual great astonishment.
Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.
I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.
Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?
And what a congress of stinks!- Roots ripe as old bait, Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks, Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
Time marks us while we are marking time.