Walking on Knives

and I learn the art
of walking on knives,
where every prick
touches the folds
of a white rose,
opening herself up
to hold up my feet
with her thorns.

The Blind Painter

and I watched him closely
as he painted
not what he saw
with his shrouded eyes,
but what he felt
with his empty heart,
as the canvas came alive
with unnamed colours
to fill my senses,
and his broken art.

I’m not an Artist, I’m a Devotee

and when you asked me
if I was an artist,
I looked into myself and smiled;
and my eyes were led
to the gifts of an ordinary day,
to the vastness
and nothingness
of the sea, the sky,
the sun, the stars,
and all of creation,
that never speak aloud of their art,
but quietly go about their daily business
possessed by an unflinching devotion
to themselves, to each other,
and to Life.