#62 sonnets

I grew unwittingly apart from the world in which I was born and can no longer walk again among the things of the earth. We know that even love is a possession, but we can't keep from praying that life will go on. And we accept the poverty of our prayers. I can possess nothing, though I love trees, clouds, people. I can only discard my overflowing heart -- hesitant to call that an act of love.

I won’t let words rest. At times they feel ashamed of themselves and want to die, inside of me. When that happens I’m in love. In a world otherwise silent people—only people— chatter away. What’s more, sun and trees and clouds are unconscious of their beauty. A fast-flying plane flies in the shape of human passion. Though the blue sky pretends to be a backdrop, in fact there’s nothing there. When I call out, in a small voice, the world doesn’t answer. My words are no different from those of the birds.