Our hearts open and hands hide our faces
The brightness of this morning, terrifying.
“I do not deserve this.” “I do not…” “I…”
Always returning to this ‘I’, we are, as if
It existed to what we open up our hearts to.
We cannot know all that we weave around
One another so that we can all live true
To a Word that we hear but cannot use.
Only in our trying, we endeavor to flow
The last blood through these purple veins.
(C) S Francis Fuller
Art The Weaver by Max Liebermann