John,
These are dangerous days,
Men with guns
Gather in close fields,
New hawks fly
Where no hawks have flown,
And the sun may well become
Something closer to earth.
Yet,
These are the very days
We need remember
That light enters
Even a boarded window,
Bends, and sweeps around the room,
A bright, warm river.
And that we also live
In that space between heartbeats,
Where the formless center
Of all things,
Is everywhere,
At once,
And forever.