Wednesday, March 24, 2010


There at the bottom of the garden
Beyond the mole heaps
And compost
Grew our anonymity
Risen as if from nothing
A division of the indivisible
A waking into sleep
The dream that never was
There from a bed of twigs and moss
It at once unbecoming
From neither woman nor she
Rose splendid and unknown
For lack of itself
Haunting nothing
Saying nothing
Still born
And yet nothing looms into something
Where at first nothing could be
And colour-kissed
The unknown at once becomes a book with lined pages
A pen with enough ink
A face recognizable
A person at once personable
A name.

1 comment:

  1. This read so smoothly that, for just a moment, I thought I was reading from the Tao Te Ching.