Think softly,

               more softly,




until your breath dissolves 

          in the hollow heart

that has two chambers,

          one for "I"

    and one for "Thou,"

one for dawn and one

             for evening.

    A tenderness

at the threshold of creation,

     between silence

          and the Word,

between stillness

      and trembling.

Dew forms

        on the rose's mouth

    just before sunrise.

         I am trying to describe

the way your stem feels

     when a blue moth settles

          on the jasmine petal.

The tremor of the thread

               in your spine

         when you remember

     that the sky has kissed

        your brown body

 every moment since birth.

     The place where all

               the laws of nature

(who are really gods and devas)

     entangle in your peritoneum

               so goldenly their 

gentleness becomes 

     indomitable power.

          Think softly,

     more softly.


They murmur with

     a single voice,

               and so it is.

Watercolor by Marney Ward

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