Look at your hands. They may hold nothing.
Yet they hold the planing of wood, and the picking up of a
stone
To skip three times across the river
And the holding of another hand, dry and cracked, but
comfortable
Across a divide.
They certainly have no issue with pulling the husks off of
the sweet corn
And tossing them into a pile where they will eventually
become new dirt
Put your clever hands over your eyes and give in to the
darkness
This darkness which clarifies the normal richness of all you
see
So much richness that every item you see becomes a thing
Of greater beauty the more that you examine it.
Nothing is required of you to make beauty happen except that you notice.
