You are only a phone call away, but I refrain.
My mind isn’t clear, my chest is in pain, and distance is a precious gift, an infant blessed by holy hands.
Space to expand, to grow, to be alone, to let this mist pass before our eyes into bright revelation.
The night is young and restless, but growing old fast, lost in worries best left unsaid and behind.
Yesterday is gone.
If I could stop this revolution, the spinning of this blue-green sphere, the hands of time, I would, but I cannot.
I am only a man, blessed by being human, who prays with unshed tears, who gives the quiet night his dreams, and patiently awaits the dawn.
August 19, 1997
(upon my return from Guatemala)