Crumbs of heaven
fall wing-soft
yet you and I
know nothing of manna or prophecy.

In the midst of
well trodden, unbidden
inner indivisibles,
habit’s anvils weigh us.

Yet attest this to one small place of untouched bliss
where we may grace the light
now and so often
extinguished
in barren land.

The foreign treader
of a dawn held wish
unfurls from our robes,
hangs us at an altar,
and no-where attempts to keep secret the name of commitment
from the carol of lip or tongue.

Silence the two-headed voice beyond the shroud,
hear this life and the secret of light.

Entwine and wind
anticipate the suspence of l imitations
and the future of what will be possible.

Hold off
hold off,
stir, sweet one
nurture our convergence.

 

MChallis © 2015