I come back to hound you
with the truth, shy person,
with eyes as wide as streets.
Does it matter where life has taken you
on its lattice of flowers,
its trellis of green fingers?
That you come on the morning
intense as the gesture of your smile.
Does the truth matter to you?
Who handles it like a sparrow
oblivious to enemies,
to the hook of a fisherman like myself.
Love is the perfect honesty.
You love so easily,
artless as a fawn,
a baby gazing at its mother.
You do not question day or night,
or time,
or life itself.
It all comes together
in a perfect congress of hearts
of absolute and loving intention.
So why should I question
what you know,
like a river falling into mist,
a tree sheltering and open,
its face a part of sky itself.
You know not a truth,
but many truths,
like the notes of a happy song,
the grains of sand assembled as a shore,
seconds flowing into the matrix of a life.
You know all these things.
You do not see anything without its face,
its golden vision.
You are a person
blessed with the truth.