In The Air, There Your Root Remains,

The Heart Hid Still In The Dark, Hard As The Philosophers Stone.

Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

There Was Earth Inside Them, And They Dug.

The Poem Is Lonely. It Is Lonely And En Route. Its Author Stays With It. Does This Very Fact Not Place The Poem Already Here, At Its Inception, In The Encounter, In The Mystery Of Encounter?

Only Truthful Hands Write True Poems. I Cannot See Any Basic Difference Between A Handshake And A Poem.