068

not knowing how to suffer,
there were those who would turn to her;
leaving themselves as offerings
in little heaps of ash.

.
.

067

wedding her tears
to the moon,
she illuminated
even the darkest
of dreams.

.
.

066

even when arrayed
with a thousand
adornments,
she would remain
unadorned.

.
.

065

with the tiniest,
most subtle of gestures,
or even with none,
all was accomplished.

.
.

064

the infinity within,
it too would gently
reveal itself.

.
.

063

it was not that
any were islands,
but that she was
an ocean.

.
.

062

even when she saw the world
about to be engulfed,
she wouldn’t intervene.
and, though the bulk
would vanish there,
from the darkness
a more innocent light
would blossom.

.
.

061

her body a garden
from which a single lily
has strayed.

.
.

060

mysteriously,
there was no mystery.

.
.

059

and there were times too
when beauty was concealed
in the withered,
when the blossom
would shed its petals
to reveal the ineffable wonder
that is an empty heart.

.
.

058

she had no memories,
only longing.

.
.

057

refuge,
when needed,
could only be sought
in the open.

.
.

056

time was simply
the expansion of her being
in which all things
were revelation.

.
.