in curling white pirouettes,
holding hands they rise, bend and rise,
bend and rise, always lifting, always lilting,
as a prayer murmured on a quiet morning;
turning me from daily tasks to rise as they rise
before a morning i cannot comprehend or control.
my soul rests thin, transparent as vapor.
a breath breathed over water still as glass.
this quiet dance,
where ordinary things
like cookware, coffee, sipping;
just another task to begin,
but if s l o w e d,
and touched just-so, with light illumined from places unknown,
without a word,
could open the deadlocks of the soul.
on such days
a soul begins to see things like coffee like cookware, like morning,
like quiet words shared in heartfelt prayer; words that rise as souls in waltz,
moving higher as unseen eyes grasp wider, more clearly than ever
a beauty wrapped, intimate,
becoming a welcomed reception,
a communion where child and father sip coffee together,
and really finally listen to each other
Post a Comment