the whispering of stars

Where was she? In her own head, like a dream; in the bellows of her lungs. What was she? Perhaps a child. Perhaps a corpse. Perhaps a fern in the forest in the storm; a singing bird.

My sweet rose, my delicate flower, my lily of lilies,

“And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.”

“At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon.”

“I used to worship inside temples, till I saw that everything around me was holy. Waterfall, stone, grass. All pure spirit. Now like a mad man, I worship everything I see, like you.”