Pearls

I am fifty years old. I am

Hiding. I lock myself in a room

where I write.

Preshus everie lite dyeing to cindred hart.

Something has happened. Something is about to

Happen.

I began to dwell once

More in uncertainty.

i a woake 1 mornynge 2

see the hole whorld.

Like a deer cornered by a pack of hounds, the now

Freezes.

If only you were right enough to touch.

Hard to tell what all the day has in store for them,

Which is the good thief and which the bad.

And the more love there is the more they seem the same.

Wee laybore at mornynge I wanted so much 2 speech.

I leaned close to hear his last words,

The dying wish I would honor as his son

For the rest of my life.

How to render in words a

Presence.

Into what otherwise might be called

Silence.