These Senses of Ours Are Shy Children

It isn't grandiose.

There's nothing of the glimmer-glamour chasing-after-fame-world to it.

It is closer-in than that


right where we're all sitting.


much closer-in

heart-level, in fact.

Like a mother's embrace

a conscious breath on a Sunday

a beam of light through a morning doorway,

you already know it.

You see, we were all old friends before we got here.

Then, somehow, someway,

in all our tumbling down,

in all our thirst and hunger,

we hardened until we distrusted 'the other.'

As the world goes on practicing with their bullets and bombs,

and long-estranged lovers reach for some new midnight balm,

the heart-mind speaks of the whole matter clearly:

All wounds are but the One Wound.