Over every mountain there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.

I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.

The darkness has it's own light.

I came to love, I came into my own.

I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.

Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.

May my silences become more accurate.