Everything vanishes around me,
and works are born as if out of the void.
Ripe, graphic fruits fall off.
My mirror probes down to the heart.
I write words on the forehead
and around the corners of the mouth.
My human faces are truer than the real ones.
at my appointed place,
at the trunk of the tree,
I do nothing other than gather and pass on
what comes to me
from the depths.
And the beauty at the crown is not my own.
I am merely a channel.
One day I will lie nowhere
with an angel at my side.
From the words of Paul Klee
Linda Frye Burnham 2011