Saturday, April 23, 2011

I run

The tulips strive open,
working so hard, they'll turn
petals upside-down, stretch each
until it breaks off, hits the tabletop.

I also work too hard, moving
a zig-zag route, cleaning and carving.
My body insisting on a go-dog-go
existence. If, rather, I sit and sing (or not,

maintaining silence instead),
the hole in my chest
finds its full presence,
and emptied, I finally

let God in.

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