There is a garden of the heart.
Ancient, present, set apart,
from the old time, false and unforgiving walls,
that fear has had us bloody knuckled pound,
though no stone falls.
Struggle sick, I cry. ‘Enough, there is no wall,’
and lark ascends a space as wide as it is tall.
Circling realms to which our dreams are gone,
where all feared lost goes on and on.
The sun has risen on this secret place,
illuminating hope childs upturned face.
Where we, sky-clad, naked, plumbing stardust sleep,
from golden stone to stone, eternal, leap.
