The One Who In Creation Never Left

In prayer this morning
you fluttered upward
like a wounded moth.
I leaned on my zafu,
relit the candles,
and peeked at the snow
flurrying through pines.
There is no way now
for me to reach you,
to kiss you, to lose
in you the loss of us
which throws its salt
on all my days. Yet
you persist, or the idea
of you does, the way
cardinals arrive to feed
at dawn, bolts of red
against the plainer light
of day. Forgive me again
the broken expressions
of sorrow and fear which
never fully escaped
my daily welter
of twenty sentences.
Perhaps I am the moth
lost in a dark interior,
battering walls of prayer
in search of a crease
through which faint suns
cast fainter rays.
Can it be? In form
I unfold toward the one
who in creation
never left.

{ 1 comment… add one }
  • Jessicajots March 4, 2015, 8:42 pm

    This poem lead me down a path of unraveling tenderness. I am grateful for the chance to read and be touched by it. More, please.

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