When someone you love dies,
you care nothing for infinity.
It is the finite body you
long to touch once again.

Infinite space,
eternal love,
nothing but asterisks
compared to the aroma
of your body next to mine.

Text upon text
are meaningless
compared to a snore
that would signify
you were in that dear
body once again.

Sutras are a dime a dozen.
What I want is beyond metaphysical
doodads and trinkets.
Come back home.
The light in the window is always on.

Vicki Woodyard