The Poet Of Tolstoy Park

When Henry wove a rug, he wove from the depths of his spirit and from the fullness of his heart, and with the careful eye of a focused mind.Directly across from his upright loom, at eye level on the concave wall of the hut, Henry had lettered a small sign for his own inspiration: BY THEIR WORKS YE SHALL KNOW THEM.And more, it was a reminder that his remission from consumption, he believed, had come as a consequence of work with his hands.Work for him was the very stuff of salvation and healing.For that reason, whenever he should write or type or spell the word "work" for any reason, he would use an uppercase "W" as its beginning.
 

Henry dropped to his knees, his bare toes finding the damp soil underneath the pine needles and leaves. He remained in that position for a quarter hour, unmoving, breathing slowly and deeply, watching the sky. Listening. The silent edge of dusk spread across the hillside. A luminous dark blue and purple void appeared to welcome the first star. And Henry, with loving respect for things he did not know, for what Cicero had called the unseen force that guides the body and guides the world, yielded to that unknown and unknowable force. He would rest in this pool of unknowing for as long a time as he was granted.

When the two shall become one
the one is still the two:
sound and silence together thrill the flute —
Each heart must have its mind or the circle is not true.
When the One has seen the Other —
a voice not his, a passion not hers —
together in God they are now, as such,
written on a single page in lines not made to touch.