I am thinking of the empty spaces.
They will spring up when I die.
I am thinking that this one only life of mine.
It is a sowing.
I am thinking that someday someone will reap this harvest
of emptiness that will follow in my wake.
The crop will consist of a basket of desert fruit, I think.
With tough skin: work to crack open.
But I have finally reached this peace now.
Finally, I am able to summon this hope
that the nectar within might be sweet
Lovely, and anonymous
May that nectar run down your bearded chin.
I wish to wish that you would discard the spent rind when it is done.
I hope that I hope you then get back to your Work.
It is, after all, the only thing that we can do:
Reach inside our one only lonely self
Take that small thing from the heart-center
And place it here, in this fertile ground.