I cannot write the world right now;
It seems too much to do.
I cannot write the desert sand
Or rivers running through.
I cannot write the garden
No apple, flower or bean.
I cannot write a hundredth
Of the things that I have seen.
I cannot write the moon at night
Or sunny summer days.
I cannot write the children
Their thought, their song, their play.
I cannot write one moment
One giant grand inside,
I simply stand with outstretched hands
And heart held open wide.