
this ache
that never leaves
that we learn
to butter like toast
and give it
pet names
and pretend
it's tamed
and step around it
in our minds
waits for us
this divine discontent
that flares up
when light pours
from your eyes
and I drown
Sacred and ecstatic songs not bound by any one tradition as all contemplative poems are fingers pointing to the same moon. Go to end of page for a listing of archived poems.