Great World, Great Soul whom I love,
I run into your arms
without perfect words, a mind-full
but never quite perfect words
recited by mortals, save birds.
Where, my love, are your hands?
Your hands that will hold us?
I sit in the rain and the snow,
meditating, finding you there.
Surely you are more clearly seen
by the hoofed ones, and by the creatures
of feather and fur.
They do not spend their lives in worry of grief.
Be at peace, heart of fire.
This human anguish– fall now into the arms
of the dark earth, the surest of all loves.