055

it was the smallest oceans
that would remain unfathomable.

.
.

054

surfaces, even edges,
were but entranceways.

. .

053

and if she needed to withdraw,
which wasn’t often,
it was never away from
but only between.

.
.

052

by still endeavouring to help,
even when knowing
there was little to be done,
the true depth of her kindness
became readily apparent.

.
.

051

to see the perfection
of the imperfect
always required
the utmost tenderness.

.
.

050

if one blew gently
in any direction,
she would be there,
to receive the words
that cannot be said.

.
.

049

by closing her eyes
so many others were opened.

.
.

048

in praise of shadows
the kettle whispered.

.
.

047

wandering
through dark gardens
her gaze sought shelter
in the shadowed light.

.
.

046

offering the dark light
of unknowing
behind the veil of flesh,
she left the truth
unadorned.

.
.

045

bathed in light
the leaf accepts
that for which the
rose gets credit.

.
.

044

the emptiness
always glistens
whenever anyone
thinks of her.

.
.

043

she built floating bridges
from one side to the other,
and was always there
waiting to welcome
anyone who crossed over.
.
,

042

water too
was a veil.

.
.