(I measure time by how a body sways.)
You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.
How terrible the need for God.
May my silences become more accurate.
Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.
The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.