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
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