Like a mute or autistic
child, a flowerless weed
that would-be rose
there are limitations.
Of the vacuous form
of water, who can say
this clearness lacks
relation to substance?
A metaphor for soul
is wind; how faithful
to direction as it shrinks
and swells?
If I imagine blackness
into blossom, a word into
a thousand worlds, God's voice
speaking from an empty church
what escapes me?
