How the pain A few have asked. How the pain. I cannot map it. There is No Terrain; there is a blank Landscape. I can see Nothing. A woman, blind or blinded, still Feels her way, in touch With her lostness, but this one, It is not even land. It has no ground. The doctor's vocabulary turns deadly Militaristic: \"invasion, destroy, rebels: Massacre, counterattack, fight.\" Enough. This is no mere insurgency I refuse to go to war. But to you who have asked How the healing, I tell you this dream: There is a garden sprung imperfect By the weed's exuberance of flowers. The garden shivers in this fog of earthbound clouds. There is this gardener abundant of will. Quietly, she tends Bougainvilleas, roses, a firetree by the gate, Willing well the weeds, the flowers, The firetree, herself. I am the dream's woman. Her garden, This body and mind sprung and willed To life's many more summers.

South and Central Asia

Dreaming the gardener

Health

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