Be an arrow floating back to the bow.
Be breath returning to the archer.
Whatever you inflicted in your enemy's flesh,
wash with your tears
until the wound mysteriously closes
like the bones in a baby's crown.
But keep it soft.
That's the door we leave by.
Like peonies unbursting,
let us spiral inward toward our buds.
Only in appearance
may we escape the seed.
When creatures repose in themselves again,
that is the healing.
This poem is an echo of the cry
of a stricken breast already whole.
Beads of gratitude fall from these eyes,
pearl worlds on a thread of silence.
I just keep whispering,