Some laud laughter as the best medicine,
and that may well be true.
But when one’s mindful habits jettison
all but the deepest blue
of that shared placid spring-fed inner stream
where all is silent, still
save for the sacred circle in one’s dream
that always grows, and will
one day enwrap all things, both dark and light
within the arms of Love,
and ever in a sunrise lift the night
to dancing up above,
no less a balm for splitting souls is found
beneath a falling sky,
as tears make rivulets on dusty ground
when Love begins to cry.