---

∴

snow falls on a forgotten steeple
hidden by business
and passed with a scoff
for the naïveté of myth.

but there,
in the stillness,
where the smells
of wood oil and pine
mingle with age and myrrh,

there is a somber ticking

of ice –

drips –

melting,

and running along
all the colors
of stained glass.

Broken shards,
burned together –
colored crystal
and melted metal –
in elegant homage
and washed with rain –

aren’t we blessed
to be.

·

that’s where i lit a candle for you.

and it glows still,
and singular,
but never alone,

sending up prayers
of good will
on faint, smokey ribbons,

flickering memory,
flashing hope,
and presently contained
in one imperceivable
flame.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

i can hear you here,
in the silent parlors
and empty kitchens
where my nimble fingers keep steady the beat of time.

 

your breath echoes
from the past
like sound waves off a star.
the light is gone
but i hear you, here.

 

i wish you well
but i’d rather tell
you stories
and listen to yours.

 

it’s too far
-sound from a star-

it makes you feel like no one’s listening.

 

when i hear you, here,
these nimble fingers
press into the heart
to knead it
like bread
to shape it
to rise

but the hours grow long
by its growing.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

any identity

that expels the true self

to ensure its survival

is a treacherous villain

indeed;

 

it betrays its lover

with heedlessness

 

and soothes its owner

in mistaken meliority.

∴

 

---

---

∴

once, i tried looking for the face of God

and when i came close

His features kept melting

and His colors kept mixing

and though unrecognizable,

i knew Him.

i did.

 

and i asked in anger,

“why won’t you show me your shape?”

 

“if you would just show me –

if i could just gaze on you, still –

then i would know what i look on is true.”

 

but God said back,

“that is my gift to you:

that you should never see me,

and thus never cease looking,

and never stop

very nearly

finding.”

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

’tis a daunting, dark well

that we teeter beside

and i wonder,

is there wisdom within?

 

where sweet, serene safety

once held us

with care,

what is it we dare

when we leave swaying cradles

to go walking in wind?

 

what is the cost

of drawing up cups

and not diving,

and diving,

and diving

deeper in?

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

what is this portent of the morning?

how does one star
in a sea of burning stars,

give hope?

that splits the earth
in streaks of iridescent orange
and outlines us in lilac
as clouds encroach horizons
and shadows fill from behind?

·

when i walk with you
i am warmed
my blood courses for the trail

when i walk in you
i’m lit
and see the souls before me

when i walk to you
i’m blind
and conveyed toward
endless calling

 

one star,

coaxing home,

i am coming.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

let me be loved for the things that i am,
never mind the things that I’m not.
and all of the things that i fail to remember,
let them simply be forgot.

 

let me be seen for the shape that i carry,
never mind the shadow i cast.
and all of the poses i morph myself into
should crumble when holding holds fast.

 

let me be known for my thoughts as they fly
never mind the ones i keep still.
and rare is the ear, that lovingly hears
the fountain and wish in their will.

 

let me be simple,
let me be sweet,
let me be silent,
when deep our eyes meet,

for then i should see you
as you should be seen
with your end and beginning
and your years in between.

 

yes,
then,
there,

we

will

be.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

the things that hope said
in the dark of the night
were muffled by shadow
and lost in lost light.

 

but still, they were spoken –
hope’s words –
in our ears,
like distant, weak rumblings
of imminent years.

years

that shall come upon us,
like fire,
like rain,
to burn and to wash
the taintingest stain

 

if we live them out fully –

with their wounding weeks
and injurious days –

and not hide in them –

with our dreams held in keeps,
and our adroitness in stays.

 

the things that hope said
were few
and subdued

but still,
they were spoken
as they hung on a rood.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

all the things that i could do
don’t need a filter to be done through.

i can lift with my hands.
i can dig my sole, deep in the sands.
i can look without flinching.
i can hold without cinching.

i can breathe out, too.
with word and song
and truths to rue,
with hope and possibility –
how fierce:
this ardency inside of me

if i would dare
to do on my own…
(there is no life lived
that’s been lived out on loan)

 

and isn’t it so with you?

can’t you feel the you
that you could do?

doesn’t it rage
like a laugh that needs letting?

doesn’t it ache
and refuse its forgetting?

 

o, that we’d see the strength
that we’re given
o, that we’d feel
our migrating rhythm

 

what could we do?

what could we do?

 

o, my love,
do you feel it too?

∴

 

 

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