“There’s emptiness and then there’s emptiness,”
the wise old voice inside me sighing said
(and maybe not so wise as old, I’d guess):
the emptiness that sits like something dead
and leaden just behind your heart and bred
there by a life too silly and too sad
and maybe (I would guess again) too mad.
And then again there’s emptiness of quite
another sort: not stuck behind the heart
at all but wafting, weaving, strangely light,
a purity that’s been there from the start
whose sweetness in the soul the sense imparts
that God again is at his crazy game
where emptiness and fullness are the same.