On a dry road,
Moving between beauty and beauty,
The road itself beautiful in the light of the near and better things.
My journey is named by the name of Home,
And yet this road is homeward, to, from, away, and nowhere
To many people.
The pages of my story unscroll between Heaven,
And Heaven-yearning hills, and the ancient, secret earth,
Immovable under our light and mortal touch.
How can my soul wrestle the beauty of truth onto a page?
I see, after all, with only my eyes:
Vision intermediaried by nerve, retina, pupil,
And my own clouded perception.
I cannot write what I know, for I only see what I do not know,
Not knowing what my sight sees:
Least of all known things my reflected self, pensive and silent between nature and story.
Perhaps it is better silent.
Perhaps I will learn to hear as well.