I’ve not spent enough time this week refilling my word pitcher.
When I went to pour from it just now, all I got was a little dust — the last drop of water dried into a rusty ring at the bottom.
So I opened The Gift, poems by Hafiz, and found indeed a gift. A suggestion for refilling that word pitcher, replenishing my inner sanctuary [pronoun changed by me]:
How Do I Listen?
How
Do I
Listen to others?
As if everyone were my Master
Speaking to me
Her
Cherished
Last Words.
Perhaps my words ran dry tonight so I can instead just listen. And so I shall.
