Undo what erring wills.
Do what shall in peace delight.
Love has no direction but its own
bright Grace, yet is particular,
"beloved" or solitary
so as to return again and again
to its own Self.

Here. There.
Wrapping itself around you,
petal and leaf.

Becoming wings when there is nothing left
to bind you to this 'only' place—yourself.

Every word whispered, breathed,
by This inner wind
into every other's space,
Here. At last
residing in Itself.
Ourself. This silence,
unforming.

 

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