There is no knowing, there is only love.
Love that is the movement of the world
within and without me; love that makes love
of sense. Love moving in the calls of birds
in river oaks, scattering their fair sound
across the pastures. Love that fills the heart
with light, removes the blockages we've forged
within ourselves, allowing will to rise
up vertically the stem that is our spine
and open at our crown in a full blossom.
No knowing―only words, words that wash
about the sandy gulf―only love
we find ourselves submitting to when
we know no limit to our subtle selves.
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