I have landed in the middle of myself,
refusing to peer down from behind my pointed finger.
My palms rest open, relaxed, at my side.
The noisy day enters and my finger longs
to indicate the problem
but I tell it, no,
you are no longer welcome to point
from your high tower.
Come down and look.
The eyes of the heart are like flowers, like stars.
They reflect the farthest light.
They notice what is destined to grow brighter
in the darkest room,
the coldest smile,
the one who looks away.