Behold, behold. In the forest clearing, we share a word.
If only, if only. The well worn paths of conversation have formed a rut.
Nothing we say will fill it or pave over.
No love spared, so grovel then, as clay, and flatten us down where no flowers will come.
Carved excess. Forced the spade.
Austere, austere. Keep your grain of salt, watch the fields lay dormant.
I am a vessel and I have found the crux.
But as I am filled with your reassurance, I cannot let you know.
You'll only hear what I've retained.
Hark hark, narcissus.
Welcome a flood, here in the clearning.
Clay come silt come muddy hands askimming.
Splish, splash.
May I gain vantage even on small hills. Even the side of the rut.
Make my heart fearless to love. I pray, I pray.
Let all vessels hold room for the unseen.
Let filigree adorn thy pottery.
Let it shatter when it falls. Sharpen the rut and foil the soulless safey.
Let it ring.
Let it ring.