What if
at the center of the labyrinth
you found only
a little boy, frightened,
frail as a moth’s wing?
How could such a creature
survive the world’s crude play,
the knife in the eye
of the stranger?
No one knows how hard
the casing of a seed
or the true meaning of
of a snail’s intricate shell.
If something must be endured
we want to believe it can be
but that’s not the point.
The point is the boy deep inside
the circle at the center
of the storm of stars.
The point is what surrounds him,
the winding and unwinding way
he walked the courses and
the love he now feels
that does not come
from any others, whoever they are
or might be.
It just comes
out of the wind singing
above the waves
this love, this rare courage
that has no home
but him.
What if
at the center of the self
there is nothing
but love, a great love for being?
Would that be enough
to hold you to the path
that runs any day across the cliffs
while the waves
break and break and break
so far beneath you?
