Smoke of incense, even when curled across
Its own question, is perfectly balanced.
Candlelight, although by definition rising
Upward, is in essence motionless.
There have been nights, so black that one can’t feel
For surfaces, or signs of what is there;
Yet calmed awhile there’s light enough to sense
That lack-of-light: we see what we can tell.
And though it weeps, the most deserted heart
Can only overflow with surplus love
Or it weeps not; just as a window pane
Though clear, in sunlight, becomes saturate.