There is a contemplative
in all of us,
almost strangled
but still alive,
who carves quiet
enjoyment of the Now,
and longs to touch
the seamless
garment of silence
which makes whole.
~ Alan P. Tory
From the place where we are right
Flowers will never grow
In the spring.
The place where we are right
Is hard and trampled
Like a yard.
But doubts and loves
Dig up the world
Like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
Where the ruined
House once stood.