a quietude of sounds
    obliquely beckoning,
      begging to be heard,
   craving a mute understanding.
  a tiny drop of lingering dew
    on a nameless blade of grass
      reflects all the world
       in dense understanding . . .
   relinquishing the need to cling,
    conceding a lack of perfection--
  the purest of visions through     tightly-closed lids,
    while silken grasps
      crumble the iron bars
  surrounding an awakened heart