O Muse, and your unseen breath that passes through me,
I call to you gods who listen only when silence is complete,
I come to you not as one certain of language,
but as one undone by its limits.
Give me words I did not learn,
words that were never written for work-worn days,
nor shaped for the mouths of the many,
but born elsewhere
in places I cannot name or reach.
Let them come to me as they come to children,
Let them come not in vain,
but a unheard clarity
as if they were angels,
moving without weight through thought,
to those who speak
before they understand they are speaking.
I do not ask for mastery,
only return.
To be made whole again in my the asking,
to become a child of perception once more,
let my thoughts find meaning
in the wind, rain, and quiet earth
where sun, moon, and eyes of the heavens
are not distant things but living play,
and the universe is held lightly
in the quiet of these wondering hands.