There’s nothing on this page until I write
A word and then another word and more:
Such sentences may bring me to delight
No sense is quite as needed as our sight.
Moral blindness is by most deplored.
There’s infinity on this page I write
I have pondered in the early winter nights,
Whether there are senses we ignore.
The expression of the sensed conveys delight.
Could there be, unseen, a different light
We might see by if we sought its door?
There’s blankness on this page until I write
The possible encounter, through a rite,
With God whom we and angels do adore.
My senses then might bring me grace and light
In the soul, oh, deep within that core,
Who shall, patient, find the unknown door?
There’s an opening upon this page l write.
Can other words, on other tongues, invite?
How my heart sings 