Before the sun rises I take my coffee outside and sit in the darkness listening to leaves fall.
There is no silence like that, not yet that I have known.
And yes, I wish that you were here.
Does not the profession of love obligate forgiveness?
And if forgiveness is less than total, it is not forgiveness but a sort of qualified hate?
Who stumbles toward God pauses now.
Your hand is the one I want.
In the distance, deer step delicately through the bracken, leaving the pond.
The heron rises from her nest in the high limbs of the pine tree.
And the geese mutter and rustle their wings for the long flight south.
Like you they are averse to winter.
Like me they only settle in darkness, afraid of any body coming closer.
I begin again the slow ascent of the hill you are.
I begin again the old prayer.
Blessed by your kindness - which brooks no refusal - I open my shirt to show yet another scar.
The darkness opens and refuses no light.
You who count daisy petals are loved.
Who you love is loved.
I begin again the slow ascent to forgiveness in the Kingdom of God.
Shame and sorrow urge me to hide but I offer again my damaged hands and wordy heart to the one who knows better than I the way home.