Honey In The Eyes

I find the world the way a lamp finds oil – by looking.

My eyes are bees; they return only with honey.

 

What I speak is not the earth, but the mirror inside me.

Words rise like birds from the weather of my seeing.

 

The world holds thorns and roses on the same stem.

I walk past the thorns as a river slips past stone.

 

Goodness grows where attention kneels like prayer.

So I see the good, because I choose that light to face