David Whyte
The winter of Listeningmy hands burning red in the palms while the night wind carries everything away outside. while the great cloak of the sky grows dark and intense round every living thing. inside us does not care to be known by the mind in ways that diminish its presence. in perfection is not what turns us into the lit angel we desire, and then nourishes has everything we need. in ourselves is what we cannot know in ourselves but what is true to the pattern does not need to be explained. is a great shout of joy waiting to be born. so far off I feel it grown in me now and ready to arrive in the world. listening to those who had nothing to say. forgetting how everything has its own voice to make itself heard. forgetting how easily you can belong to everything simply by listening. difficulty of remembering how everything is born from an opposite and miraculous otherness. has led me to that otherness. of listening be enough for the new life I must call my own.
by David Whyte 
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