How to begin?
Always a kind of diffidence sets in: how to begin? When it comes to the question of living, I manage to do it easily, Smilingly, burying within a swatch of tears. When it comes to touching, I spread- eagle my being and becoming, to become a silent part of everything. When it comes to writing a poem, I shrink back, simply because I know nothing. I can not even become the bright eyes of crows who herald the dawn. Nor can I become the green shimmer of grass to assuage all wars. This, then, is the pain within: how to begin? A diffidence sets in, always.