Wounded

You are such a nice touch
in my life –
As morning settles freshly upon leaves
and blessed things of the earth,
softening their delicate crispness,
your warmth absorbs my person,
immerses me in jubilant light…

So I write.
And as often as I do,
to what end and to whom?
As often as I gaze,
whom do I behold?
In the writing I see;
in my seeing I must write.
And I wonder, is my vision prophetic?
Or words wishfully willing a dream to be?

Life does unfold
but not, as we would perceive,
to a logical progression.
Nor deliberately does mine,
but haphazardly and nebulously,
like smoke ascending:
whirling formations
transformed again and again,
then gone.

You touch and intersect me
at each place and moment
calling me to be for the moment.
You throw my form in shadows on the wall
and I see the mystery of me unravel,
reshaping to become mystery once more.
Dare I frame a moment in my life
lest it regather in its formlessness and fly away.

Growing is like
not knowing but moving on through it all.
One is called to be
what one cannot see
yet accepts the call to a natural conclusion.
So how does one proceed?

There is a tension within that propels
brings me to spaces where I can stretch out and be.
There is One who meets me along the way,
Who frees me to dream and believe in the dreaming.

So I write the story
with its myriad possibilities of movement.
And it is I who decides,
tying my life to a determined course.
In my response I find repose.

Oh, but I vacillate.
Yes, I swing like a pendulum
between two poles of a paradox:
rejoicing in my self-familiarity,
sighing over my self-alienation.
With you I become familiar.
Without you, less so.

I frolic, a child, in love present like yours.
I flounder in fear when I try to seize it.
For love is subtle
and elusive as the air that slips through our fingers.

The distance of time alone,
measured together in the embrace of Another
will reveal that love creates from its emptiedness.
We become what we must in the giving –
You are
a divine touch in my life.