All day I wrote: for the one who asks: for the one who reads.
The crows pass and head to the river.
The chickens get comfortable in the warm tall grass.
And the dogwood blooms, and the backyard rose bush, and the raspberries, and bee balm and butterflies.
Oh you before whom I fall - weeping and pleading - bless me now that I might crawl another mile.
You for whom the words flow - a river, a font - give back to me as only you can.
Forgive the broken doors of lust.
The insanity of declaring anyone a body.
For it was you who saved me: and you who delivered me: and you for whom I write, day after day, night after night.
Hour after hour, into the summer, outside time.
Each sentence hints at where you will find eternity.
Each hush in the forest demands your attention.
Your shoulders hold me, and your breasts hold me, and I will not lie to you.
Held in silence: the sun rises and sets: a movement.
The moon - long desired - is there, waiting: a movement.
As a child I lingered over photographs, comforted by their stillness, that one need not hurry but could settle into love.
Even now they speak to me of what awaits us all beyond the ambit of words.
Who is healed, keeps going, and who is not healed keeps going as well: that is the law.
Yet I beg you: take now my pain: free me of it: release me, love, from that forever.
For I wait on you: sleepless but wordy: homeless before you again.