"There is no language for the holy-
the sacred lies in the ordinary"

a few frenzied worried words
across a crinkled page, while
                   slowly sipping
honey-sweetened Mate
under a blossoming apple tree,

it is not long until I long

                   to slip

into the stillness between words
the cold cacophonous clutter
of mind-mutter, that
brain-blaring banter
                 born of fear and regret-
                 this psittaceous chatter over
it has already happened,
                   or hasn’t,
                   or never will,
                                 and yet-

                   for a very small fee:

simply sitting silently still,

                   gardens will
                     open their gates…
                       allowing me

                   to slip

                   into the poetry
                     of apple-blossom wisdom
                       wafting wordless

                              -p.d. strobridge