The crescent moon wanes and turns yellow and floats in the sky roughly like a turtle shell. I pass beneath it both happy and sad – happy because the Lord is near but sad because you aren’t.
And now kindness hides in the forest, nervous and prescient, like a doe on the cusp of winter. How far we travel just to be lonely, just to reenact again the drama of lovers who dream their love can replace their God.
One wakes at a familiar hour, in luminous darkness, and kneels to pray. I taste your shoulder, trail the smooth extension of your collar bone, the satin shadows of your throat and arrive at your lips which part gently, pulling me closer to what knows the Graceful Heart
How gentle must we learn to be who were raised on anguish and hate! How devoted in a world that exists solely to debase the sacred . . .
In the face of storms, one hunkers down but refuses to leave the road. One renders in sentences what perhaps must go without.
And who stumbles stumbles the worse now, blinded by loss and the stubborn salt of tears. We are all fools and we all rise the way daisies do to the light.
Who promises forgiveness – who utters the world “love” – is bound by the promise to make whole what fears it will go forever broken. The mail arrives and goes out like the sea, like the light of the sun on the faraway sea.
No trail exists now that has not heard the gentle kiss in the syllables of your name. No lust billows that does not know it can safely exhaust itself in the country of your sighs.
Words are not enough now and nobody knows that better than me. And yet they flutter in my mind like falling leaves, each one whispering your name as it settles in frosty grass.
I write from the lonely chapel we built, in the clearing Christ prepared for us. My heart crying for you, who saw before I did – and yet knows better – the secret to union, this last step Home.