Poem Of The Day



more poems can be found at

Journal of Nobody

ymutate poems (NSFW) also a page of ymutate quotes


Saturday, March 25

What a wonder I was
when I was young, as I learn
by the stern privilege
of being old: how regardlessly
I stepped the rough pathways
of the hillside woods,
treaded hardly thinking
the tumbled stairways
of the steep streams, and worked
unaching hard days
thoughtful only of the work,
the passing light, the heat, the cool
water I gladly drank.

“VII.” by Wendell Berry from A Small Porch.

My Life, My Soul

Ten years ago…..
I turned my face for a moment
and it became my life.

Sometimes I go about pitying myself,
and all along
my soul is being blown by great winds across the sky.

—Ojibway saying


Thursday, March 23

The Crows

The crows are here, they plunge bad-tempered on the electric wires
and stay for a spell, staring at my street’s frozen landscape.
While I walk and look at the sky so high and clean, nothing moves in
the desolation of winter.
The earth has turned again, completing its interminable cycle. Now
sun, now night. It’s up to us to see the time of the harvest, the truce.
Many small animals will die in the season of frost, others, those that
have wings, will go far away.

We have gathered a few dry branches to get a bonfire going. And as
we have done for centuries, we’ll sit in a circle and wait. We’ll sing a
song that says how beautiful life is.

It truly is. The fire enlivens the memory and helps us imagine that the
sun will return again and that in the meantime we need to feed our
hopes, weave colorful blankets, make interlaced knots of good wishes,
create fantastic dreams, now light, now dark.

Do you remember last winter? We went up to the bridge and from
there we saw the river iced over. Nothing can be more sublime nor
more moving than life apparently frozen.

Come, put in this pan the walnuts that you found at the foot of the
tree, I will add honey and oats, fragrant kinds that I kept in the shade
during summer. We’ll celebrate the vigil as we have done since
always, since we were others, protected by the blessing of being alive.

Monday, March 20

A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human naturefeels.

It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.

Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:

A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament

–Emily Dickinson


Two Tramps in Mud Time
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.

You know how it is with an April day.

When the sun is out and the wind is still,

You’re one month on in the middle of May.

But if you so much as dare to speak,

a cloud come over the sunlit arch,

And wind comes off a frozen peak,

And you’re two months back in the middle of March.

— Robert Frost



The First Dandelion
As if no artifice of fashion, business, politics, had ever been,

Forth from its sunny nook of shelter’d grass — innocent, golden, calm as the dawn,

The spring’s first dandelion shows its trustful face.

— Walt Whitman


Vernal Equinox

The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies

between me and my book;
And the South Wind, washing through the room,
Makes the candles quiver.
My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,
And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots
Outside, in the night.

Why are you not here to overpower me with your

tense and urgent love?

–Amy Lowell, 1874 – 1925

Thursday, March 16


The road seen, then not seen, the hillside
hiding then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
when you thought you would fall,
and the way forward always in the end
the way that you followed, the way that carried you
into your future, that brought you to this place,
no matter that it sometimes took your promise from you,
no matter that it had to break your heart along the way:
the sense of having walked from far inside yourself
out into the revelation, to have risked yourself
for something that seemed to stand both inside you
and far beyond you, that called you back
to the only road in the end you could follow, walking
as you did, in your rags of love and speaking in the voice
that by night became a prayer for safe arrival,
so that one day you realized that what you wanted
had already happened long ago and in the dwelling place
you had lived in before you began,
and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise
that first set you off and drew you on and that you were
more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way
than the gilded roofs of any destination you could reach:
as if, all along, you had thought the end point might be a city
with golden towers, and cheering crowds,
and turning the corner at what you thought was the end
of the road, you found just a simple reflection,
and a clear revelation beneath the face looking back
and beneath it another invitation, all in one glimpse:
like a person and a place you had sought forever,
like a broad field of freedom that beckoned you beyond;
like another life, and the road still stretching on.

— David Whyte
from Pilgrim
©2012 Many Rivers Press


So that one day
you realized
that what you wanted
had already happened,
and long ago,
and in the dwelling place
in which you lived
before you began,
and that every step
along the way,
you had carried
the heart and the mind
and the promise,
that first set you off
and then drew you on,
and that
you were
more marvelous
in your simple wish
to find a way
than the gilded roofs
of any destination
you could reach:

Excerpt from ‘Santiago’
From Pilgrim: Poems by David Whyte
©2012 David Whyte

Wednesday, March 15

[as freedom is a breakfastfood]

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
–long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
–long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common’s rare and millstones float
–long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
–time is a tree (this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough

E. E. Cummings



Encounter with Freedom

Like an enormous wave
that lies down over my heart.
Like the stunning beauty
of the wind over the pines.
Like an immense, vital heartbeat.
Like the moon and the river
trapped by love.
Like all the dreams
in the space of the eyes.
Like a fistful of infinite light.
That is the way I love freedom!

Elsa Wiezell


A light exists in spring

A light exists in Spring
Not present on the year
At any other period—
When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad
On solitary fields
That science cannot overtake
But human nature feels.

It waits upon the lawn,
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.

Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:

A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.

by Emily Dickinson


Monday, March 13

three poems by William Stafford

The Gift

Time wants to show you a different country. It’s the one
that your life conceals, the one waiting outside
when curtains are drawn, the one Grandmother hinted at
in her crochet design, the one almost found
over at the edge of the music, after the sermon.

It’s the way life is, and you have it, a few years given.
You get killed now and then, violated
in various ways. (And sometimes it’s turn about.)
You get tired of that. Long-suffering, you wait
and pray, and maybe good things come − maybe
the hurt slackens and you hardly feel it any more.
You have a breath without pain. It is called happiness.

It’s a balance, the taking and passing along,
the composting of where you’ve been and how people
and weather treated you. It’s a country where
you already are, bringing where you have been.
Time offers this gift in its millions of ways,
turning the world, moving the air, calling,
every morning, “Here, take it, it’s yours.”



Sunday March 12

—Robert Creeley

Think out
of the heart—

it’s up,
it’s down…

It’s that time
of day light

echoes the sun
setting west

over mountains.
I want to come home.

Friday, March 10

A Cedary Fragrance

Even now,
decades after,
I wash my face with cold water –

Not for discipline,
nor memory,
nor the icy, awakening slap,

but to practice
to make the unwanted wanted.

Jane Hirshfield

Thursday, March 9

Of Mere Being

The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor.
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Wallace Stevens


Tuesday, March 7

Future Plans
by Kate Barnes

When I am an old, old woman I may very well be
living all alone like many another before me
and I rather look forward to the day when I shall have
a tumbledown house on a hill top and behave
just as I wish to. No more need to be proud—
at the tag end of life one is at last allowed
to be answerable to no one. Then I shall wear
a shapeless felt hat clapped on over my white hair,
sneakers with holes for the toes, and a ragged dress.
My house shall be always in a deep-drifted mess,
my overgrown garden a jungle. I shall keep a crew
of cats and dogs, with perhaps a goat or two
for my agate-eyed familiars. And what delight
I shall take in the vagaries of day and night,
in the wind in the branches, in the rain on the roof!
I shall toss like an old leaf, weather-mad, without reproof.
I’ll wake when I please, and when I please I shall doze;
whatever I think, I shall say; and I suppose
that with such a habit of speech I’ll be let well alone
to mumble plain truth like an old dog with a bare bone.

“Future Plans” by Kate Barnes from Where the Deer Were. © David R. Godine, 1994


“Woman, what’s your name?” “I don’t know.”
“How old are you? Where are you from?” “I don’t know.”
“Why did you dig that burrow?” “I don’t know.”
“How long have you been hiding?” “I don’t know.”
“Why did you bite my finger?” “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you know that we won’t hurt you?” “I don’t know.”
“Whose side are you on?” “I don’t know.”
“This is war, you’ve got to choose.” “I don’t know.”
“Does your village still exist?” “I don’t know.”
“Are those your children?” “Yes.”

Wislawa Szymborska

Truth does not change because it is, or is not, believed by a majority of the people.”Giordano Bruno, Italian, friar, philosopher, mathematician, poet, religious figure

In many parts of this world:
water is scarce & precious.
People sometimes have to walk a great distance
then carry heavy jugs upon their heads.
Because of our wisdom:
we will travel far for love.
All movement is a sign of thirst.
Most speaking really says
“I am hungry to know You.”
Every desire of your body is holy:
Why wait until you are dying
to discover that divine truth?

Monday, March 6

Proverbs and Songs
by Antonio Machado

English version by Robert Bly

Dedicated to Jose Ortega y Gasset

The eye you see is not
an eye because you see it;
it is an eye because it sees you.

To talk with someone,
ask a question first,
then — listen.

is an ugly fault,
and now it’s a boring fault too.

But look in your mirror for the other one,
the other one who walks by your side.

Between living and dreaming
there is a third thing.
Guess it.

This Narcissus of ours
can’t see his face in the mirror
because he has become the mirror.

New century? Still
firing up the same forge?
Is the water still going along in its bed?

Every instant is Still.

The sun in Aries. My window
is open to the cool air.
Oh the sound of the water far off!
The evening awakens the river.

In the old farmhouse
— a high tower with storks! —
the gregarious sound falls silent,
and in the field where no on is,
water makes a sound among the rocks.

Just as before, I’m interested
in water held in;
but now water in living
rock of my chest.

When you hear water, does its sound tell you
if it’s from a mountain or farm,
city street, formal garden, or orchard?

What I find surprises me:
leaves of the garden balm
smell of lemonwood.

Don’t trace out your profile,
forget your side view —
all that is outer stuff.

Look for your other half
who walks always next to you
and tends to be what you aren’t.

When spring comes,
go to the flowers —
why keep on sucking wax?

In my solitude
I have seen things very clearly
that were not true.

Water is good, so is thirst;
shadow is good, so is sun;
the honey from the rosemarys
and the honey of the bare fields.

Only one creed stands:
quod elixum est ne asato.
Don’t roast what’s already boiled.

Sing on, sing on, sing on,
the cricket in his cage
near his darling tomato.

Form your letters slowly and well:
making things well
is more important than making them.

All the same…
Ah yes! All the same,
moving the legs fast is important,
as the snail said to the greyhound.

There are really men of action now!
The marsh was dreaming
of its mosquitoes.

Wake up, you poets:
let echoes end,
and voices begin.

But don’t hunt for dissonance;
because, in the end, there is no dissonance.
When the sound is heard people dance.

What the poet is searching for
is not the fundamental I
but the deep you.

The eyes you’re longing for —
listen now —
the eyes you see yourself in
are eyes because they see you.

Beyond living and dreaming
there is something more important:
waking up.

Now someone has come up with this!
Cogito ergo non sum.
What an exaggeration!

I thought my fire was out,
and stirred the ashes…
I burnt my fingers.

Pay attention now:
a heart that’s all by itself
is not a heart.

I’ve caught a glimpse of him in dreams:
expert hunter of himself,
every minute in ambush.

He caught his bad man:
the one who on sunny days
walks with head down.

If a poem becomes common,
passed around, hand to hand, it’s OK:
gold is chosen for coins.

If it’s good to live,
then it’s better to be asleep dreaming,
and best of all,
mother, is to awake.

Sunlight is good for waking,
but I prefer bells —
the best thing about morning.

Among the figs I am soft.
Among the rocks I am hard.
That’s bad!

When I am alone
how close my friends are;
when I am with them
how distant they are!

Now, poet, your prophecy?
“Tomorrow what is dumb will speak,
the human heart and the stone.”

But art?
It is pure and intense play,
so it is like pure and intense life,
so it is like pure and intense fire.
You’ll see the coal burning.

Friday, March 3

by Rolf Jacobsen
Sssh the sea says
Sssh the small waves at the shore say, sssh
Not so violent, not
So haughty, not
So remarkable,
Say the tips of the waves
Crowding around the headland’s
Surf. Sssh
They say to people
This is our earth
Our eternity.
translated by Robert Bly


The star in my
Hand is falling
All the uniforms know what’s no use
May I bow to Necessity not
To her hirelings


Something I’ve not done
is following me
I haven’t done it again and again
so it has many footsteps
like a drumstick that’s grown old and never been used
In late afternoon I hear it come closer
at times it climbs out of a sea
onto my shoulders
and I shrug it off
losing one more chance
Every morning
it’s drunk up part of my breath for the day
and knows which way
I’m going
and already it’s not done there
But once more I say I’ll lay hands on it
and add its footsteps to my heart
and its story to my regrets
and its silence to my compass

-W.S. Merwin

Thursday, May 2

First Star on the Twilight River

A river of twilight
Flowed over the hills
And covered the valley
With its soft, cool water.
I sat beside my little brother
On the front porch, and I
Told him a story about
A flower that fell
In love with a star.
When I finished the story,
My little brother pointed
At the first star
On the twilight river,
And he said,
“Is dat da star?”
Richard Brautigan


David Whyte

Carrying a child,
I carry a bundle
of sleeping
future appearances,
I carry
my daughter adrift
on my shoulder,
dreaming her slender
I carry her
the window,
her moon lit
and close
like a tiny
each line
a path that leads
where I can’t go,
so that I read
her palm
not knowing
what I read

walk with her
in moon light
on the landing,
not knowing
with whom I walk,
invisible prayers
to go on
with her
where I can’t
with so many
that must know her
more intimately
than I do.

And so
to these
and this
broad night
I make
a quiet
to the
great parental
to hold her
when I cannot,
to comfort her
when I am gone,
to help her learn
to love
the unknown
for itself,
to take it
a lantern
for the way
before her,
to help her see
where ordinary
light will not help,
where happiness
has fled,
where faith
cannot reach.

My prayer tonight
for the great
and hidden
of life
to reward this
faith I have
and twin
her passages
of loneliness
with friendship,
her exiles
with home coming,
her first awkward
steps with
onward leaps.

May she find
in all this,
day or night,
the beautiful
of pure opposites,
may she discover
before she grows
not to choose
so easily
between past
and present,
may she find
one or the other
her gifts

And so
as I helped
to name her
I help to name
I bring
to life
what is needed,
I invoke
the help she’ll
these moonlit lines
into a future
by me but
by all
I call.

As she grows
from me,
may these
life lines
grow with her,
keep her safe,
with my
open palm
whose lines
have run before
to make a safer way,
I hold her
smooth cheek
and bless her
this night
and beyond it
and for every unknown
night to come.

My Daughter Asleep
‘River Flow : New and Selected Poems’
© David Whyte and Many Rivers Press

Wednesday, March 1

I am the People, the Mob

I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass.

Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?

I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and


I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me

and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons

and Lincolns.

I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing.

Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out

and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes

me work and give up what I have. And I forget.

Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history

to remember. Then—I forget.

When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the

lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year,

who played me for a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the

world say the name: “The People,” with any fleck of a sneer in his

voice or any far-off smile of derision.

The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.

Carl Sandburg

Not Ideas About the Thing but the Thing Itself 
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.

He knew that he heard it,
A bird’s cry, at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow . . .
It would have been outside.

It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep’s faded papier-mâché . . .
The sun was coming from outside.

That scrawny cry—it was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,

Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.

-Wallace Stevens

Tuesday, February 28

“I discovered very quickly that criticism is a form of optimism, and that when you are silent about the shortcomings of your society, you’re very pessimistic about that society. And it’s only when you speak truthfully about it that you show your faith in that society.”
Carlos Fuentes

Monday, February 27

Don’t Come to Me With the Entire Truth
by Olav H. Hauge

Don’t come to me with the entire truth.
Don’t bring the ocean if I feel thirsty,
nor heaven if I ask for light;
but bring a hint, some dew, a particle,
as birds carry drops away from a lake,
and the wind a grain of salt.

From: “The Dream We Carry” Selected and Last Poems of Olav H. Hauge
Translated by Robert Bly and Robert Hedin

by Barbara Crooker

The sky hangs up its starry pictures: a swan,
a crab, a horse. And even though you’re
three hundred miles away, I know you see
them, too. Right now, my side of the bed is empty, a clear blue lake of flannel. The distance yawns and stretches. It’s hard to remember we swim in an ocean of great love, so easy to fall into bickering like little birds at the feeder fighting over proso and millet, unaware of how large the bag of grain is,
a river of golden seeds, that the harvest was plentiful, the corn is in the barn, and whenever we’re hungry, a dipperful of just what we need will be spilled .

Sunday, February 26

the poet David Whyte speaks of the ideas and dreams which led people to immigrate to America.  An America which sadly no longer exists.  Our task is to bring it back and make it indeed a better place for people arriving from everywhere.


Imagine the confines of a long grey corridor
just before immigration at Washington Dulles
airport. Imagine two Ethiopian women amid
a sea of familiar international plastic blandness,
entering America for the first time. Think of
their undulating multi-colored turbans raised
atop graceful heads, transforming us,
a grey line of travelers behind them, into followers
and mendicants, mere drab, impatient, moneyed
and perplexed attendants to their bright,
excited, chattered arrival.

Imagine a sharp plexi-gass turn left and suddenly
before them, in biblical astonishment, like a vertical
red sea churning, like the waters barring Moses from
The Promised Land, like Jacob standing before the ladder,
a moving escalator, a mode of rising, a form of ascension,
a way to go up they’d never seen before, its steel grey
interlocking invitation on and up to who knows what,
bringing them and everyone behind them, to a bemused,
complete, and utter standstill.

So that you saw it for the first time as they saw it
and for what it was, a grated river of lifting steel,
an involuntary, moving ascension into who knows what.
An incredible surprise. And you knew, even through
your tiredness, why it made them raise their hands
to their mouths, why it made them give low breathy
screams of surprise and delighted terror. You saw it
as they saw it, a staircase of invisible interlocking
beckoning hands asking them to rise up
independent of their history, their legs or their wills.
And we stopped as we knew we had to now
and watched the first delighted be-turbaned
woman put a sandaled foot on the flat grey
plain at the foot of the moving stair and sure
enough quickly withdraw it with a strangled scream,
leaving her sandal to ascend strangely without her
into heaven, into America, into her new life.

Then, holding her friend away, who tried to grab
her, to save her, to hold her back, who pointed
and shouted, telling her not to risk herself,
not to be foolish, she silently watched her shoe,
that willful child, running ahead, its sole intent
to enter the country oblivious to visas and immigration,
above the need for a job, uncaring of healthcare,
pointing toward some horizon she had never dreamt,
intent on leaving only its winged footprint
for her to follow, like a comet’s tail, like an omen
of necessity, like a signaled courage, like an uncaring
invitation, to make her entrance with sould and style.

Because she looked up at this orphaned, onward
messenger with her eyes ablaze, threw off the panicked
clamboring arms of her friend, raised her chin
in noble profile, and with all that other hurrying
clamor of the world behind her, with a busy,
unknowing, corporate crowd at her back and questions
beginning to be asked out loud, she lifted her arms,
clapped her hands, threw back her head and with
a queenly unbidden grace, strode on to the ascending
heaven bound steel like a newly struck film star,
singing the old, high pitched song her children
would hear when she told the story again.

And as her friend below sang,
applauded, danced on the spot
and ululated her companion’s arrival,
we stood there behind her,
transfixed, travel weary,
and crammed into the corridor
like extras from some
miraculous scene in the Bible.

she ascended,
her arms straight out,
wide eyed and singing.
Into America.

— David Whyte
from River Flow
© 2007 Many Rivers Press

The Poem That Took the Place of a Mountain

There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.
He breathed its oxygen,
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.
It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction,
How he had recomposed the pines,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,
For the outlook that would be right,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:
The exact rock where his inexactnesses
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged,
Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea,
Recognize his unique and solitary home.
-Wallace Stevens

Saturday, Feb 25

The Silence
-Wendell Berry

Though the air is full of singing
my head is loud
with the labor of words.

Though the season is rich
with fruit, my tongue
hungers for the sweet of speech.

Though the beech is golden
I cannot stand beside it
mute, but must say

‘It is golden,’ while the leaves
stir and fall with a sound
that is not a name.

It is in the silence
that my hope is, and my aim.
A song whose lines

I cannot make or sing
sounds men’s silence
like a root. Let me say

and not mourn: the world
lives in the death of speech
and sings there.

What This Is Not

This is not just surprise and pleasure.
This is not just beauty sometimes
too hot to touch.
This is not a blessing with a beginning
and an end.
This is not just a wild summer.
This is not conditional.

–Mary Oliver

Everything That Was Broken

Everything that was broken has
forgotten its brokenness. I live
now in a sky-house, through every
window the sun. Also your presence.
Our touching, our stories. Earthly
and holy both. How can this be, but
it is. Every day has something in
it whose name is forever.


-William Stafford

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?
When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life–
What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

The World I Live In
-Mary Oliver
I have refused to live
locked in the orderly house of
reasons and proofs;
The world I live in and believe in
is wider than that. And anyway,
what’s wrong with Maybe?
You wouldn’t believe what once or
twice I have seen. I’ll just
tell you this:
only if there are angels in your head will you
ever, possibly, see one.

Friday, Feb. 24

All the Hemispheres                                                                                                                                 -Hafiz

Leave the familiar for a while.

Let your senses and bodies stretch out

Like a welcomed season
Onto the meadows and shores and hills.

Open up to the Roof.
Make a new water-mark on your excitement
And love.

Like a blooming night flower,
Bestow your vital fragrance of happiness
And giving
Upon our intimate assembly.

Change rooms in your mind for a day.

All the hemispheres in existence
Lie beside an equator
In your heart.

Greet Yourself
In your thousand other forms
As you mount the hidden tide and travel
Back home.

All the hemispheres in heaven
Are sitting around a fire

While stitching themselves together
Into the Great Circle inside of

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