Where are the words,
the ones I can often reach out
and pull close enough to inhale
and breathe out of my finger tips?
At a place in being,
from which my heart gives up her truth,
a way away from the dizziness of dailiness,
a place that is dailiness beneath the cloak
of what appears to be mundane,
until I have occasion to look back
and perceive the intricate designs
a Master Hand has fashioned through my life.