Each thing speaks of everything, while everything always speaks of something.
For how does anything speak except in speaking of itself, and more than itself?
For to say “I speak” is to say also “I have been spoken.”
A word is always more than a word, a word of the Word itself;
and yet this Word is not abstract, impersonal, or empty, but full,
and speaks of specificity, of singularity, present in Love’s superfluous outpouring.
The universe contained in a little flower-bud, or in a babbling child.
Petals opening to the sun, from the earth having deeply drunk,
“Mama,” “Dada,” the voice mouths, imperfectly,
speaking perfectly of the perfect mystery that stands beneath all things.
“Abba, Father,” says the little Son, in his eternal immensity,
“My Son,” says the Father back, delight upon his face,
and in the gaze, the word of each, spoken between the two,
the whole of all that exists is made, everything spoken in the one.