WRITTEN ON THE PULSE

Time was
when wheat was

a living gold
that moved with the wind

moving me
to tears

unable to hold
the ecstasy of its beauty

or the green of trees
alive with sunlight

made me cry that I
had no words to touch it

and all I could do
was to love it so

with all
my soul

before words came
and attached themselves

to these ordinary
miracles

the world teaching me
to say itself

to understand
the ravishing of the senses

the language of feeling
written on the pulse