I wake up in the night at the least sound
And lie awake till aurora puts out stars
The despair grows in me
In fear of what life would be.
My feet lead me to the pond in the back of my house.
I lie down there and look at my reflection
As the water is crystal clear with no fish.
As crystal as my name is.
I come into the peace of wild things
Who don’t tax their lives with forethought of grief
I test in the grace of the world and am free.
In quite waters things mirror undistorted
And in quite mind is adequate perception
One sees reflection in still water, not running water.
I look to the reflections of the flowers around
You know, flowers have an expression of countenance
As much as men and animals
Some seem to smile, some sad, pensive
And some plain, honest and upright
Like the broad-faced sunflower and the hollyhock.
The flower is the poetry of reproduction
The hieroglyphics of angels
Have the present and no future
Have the thorns and respect the thorn.
Always look up and never look down.
They are the antidotes to get refreshed of my despair.
Beauty is no quality in things themselves:
It exists merely in the mind contemplative.
