No passage holds your faithful word,
unspoken word, your constant word.
No portal for your comeliness,
dissolving forms, your constant forms.
You lie in field and trimmed in wood,
dress the boughs of evergreen,
glistening, clothe the day at noon,
shape blue moonlit crystal nights.
Your formless waltz and gypsy dance,
your noble fall and gathered pomp,
demure, exalted at our door,
more silent than a whispered prayer,
Sleeping crocus, unlit worlds
are named among your supplicants.
Unspoken word, your constant word
dissolves with your habiliments.
- Les Blough
The word that can be spoken, is not the constant word.
The name that can be spoken is not the constant name."
- Tao Te Ching
More poetry by Les Blough
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