Saturday, October 12, 2013

The God I Consistently Crucify

If you gaze east while I gaze west where do our eyes meet?

If I think of you where the trail turns, does it turn for you as well?

If I sip this cup of tea with my eyes closed, picturing your shoulder, does the blanket slip from your shoulder as you sleep?

How many others must we pass through before resting at last in one another?

How many more lifetimes?

Stories come and go.

Even the stars come and go.

You were here before the hills, here before the sun setting beyond the hills, and here before I began writing prayers in secret rooms for the God I consistently crucify.

The moon comes and goes.

The dog goes out into the woods without me and I walk slower until she returns.

Daughter of wolves, woman of light.

How I long to kneel before you, to worship yes, but also to lean in to where you are softest, most secret.

A fool brings emptiness to emptiness.

A fool sits all day writing captions for photographs nobody ever sent him.

And this and that.

If in your mind you see a daisy do all the daisies of the world brighten the tiniest bit?

Does the highway beg to be traveled?

The hotel to be left behind?

What new home beckons where my heart trembles so frightened to go, so scared of what it fears it must give up?

Oh you, you beautiful you, you river of all my days.

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