Your grief for what youve lost holds a mirror
up to where you're bravely working.
Expecting the worst, you look and instead,
here's the joyful face youve been wanting to see.
Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralyzed.
Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expand
the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.