The empty cup,
A beggar\'s coinless hat—
Both echo with a kind of wealth.
In the room with no mirrors,
Dance the shadows
Of what could be.
Picture the barren tree,
It\'s branches
Cradles for the wind\'s children.
The clock without hands
Teaches the art
Of timeless expectation.
Look at the sky,
The ground,
The in-between—
All filled with the craft
Of what\'s to come,
If only you build it.
The zigzag of lightning
In a bottle,
The ripe void waiting to burst,
That\'s where we start:
With the quiet thunder
Of possibility.