The thing that is what a word says can be shy.
There’s one word that when it’s name is spoken hides.
It casts no shadow. Ghost inside a room.
It washes the Masters feet, lost to all pride.

The busyness of love is like a balm,
relaxing the ache of muscles tensed to win.
She said it wasn’t her, it was the song
that flowed out from all life and let me in.

A promise or a curse before a mirror
defeats itself before it is a lie.
Rage at a wrong or holding fast to fear
is more the enemy when it whispers “Why?”

When I am silent, listening in my prayers,
the angel who watches my steps can catch her breath.
The child who took my apple knows I’m wise.
This moment no longer hurries toward its death.