I Have Only My Own Burden To

On The Bookshelf Of Life, God Is A Useful Work Of Reference, Always At Hand But Seldom Consulted.

Smiling, Sincere, Incorruptible - His Body Disciplined And Limber. A Man Who Had Become What He Could, And Was What He Was- Ready At Any Moment To Gather Everything Into One Simple Sacrifice.

Is Life So Wretched? Isn't It Rather Your Hands Which Are Too Small, Your Vision Which Is Muddled? You Are The One Who Must Grow Up.

The Light Died In The Low Clouds. Falling Snow Drank In The Dusk. Shrouded In Silence, The Branches Wrapped Me In Their Peace. When The Boundaries Were Erased, Once Again The Wonder: That *i* Exist.

So Rests The Sky Against The Earth. The Dark Still Tarn In The Lap Of The Forest. As A Husband Embraces His Wife's Body In Faithful Tenderness, So The Bare Ground And Trees Are Embraced By The Still, High, Light Of The Morning. I Feel An Ache Of Longing To Share In This Embrace, To Be United And Absorbed. A Longing Like Carnal Desire, But Directed Towards Earth, Water, Sky, And Returned By The Whispers Of The Trees, The Fragrance Of The Soil, The Caresses Of The Wind, The Embrace Of Water And Light. Content? No, No, No - But Refreshed, Rested - While Waiting.