Benevolent World

I do not know how to write a poem.

The words

they wait, faithful

Like the trees and the tide

The sun.

If only I had the faith of the sycamore

Remembering that the poem comes

through the ease and the unease, the joy

and the pain, the all.

The answers I’ve been seeking are carried not on the intellect.

They travel along some secret stream,

glide over rocks

gurgling to the song of the cicada.

I do not know how to do what I want to do.

The world

it waits, faithful

If only I could remember the way the soft grass

hugs my wild and precious self.

Benevolent woman,

Benevolent world

This is how I will come to do what I do,

Benevolently

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