Gifts I Can't Quite Bring Myself

These narrow windows through which we barely fit, these doors hanging slant in dusty frames. When I wake up rain thrums the the slate roof, car wheels hiss going up and down Main Street. What is the origin of fear? Is there only one question and only one answer? And who will say to my satisfaction? One day we will sip from the last cup of coffee ever, and the truth will not depend on whether or not we know it. As now the Lord visits and lingers, leaving notes for how to find Him after, gifts I can't quite bring myself to tell Him have arrived too late. It's not emptiness exactly, nor loneliness. It's not precisely sorrow. My heart was ruined fifty years ago and everything since has been stitches and triage. Up to my knees in a slow stream, I say what the currents say. Quiet has left the world in me. My mouth, my love, is the grave of God.