some kind of threshold —
no door advances towards me,
no conveyer bears me, willy nilly,
towards a place of change
My progress rather
is like the dawn
and the stately procession
of summer clouds
No reckoning, no tally,
just the roll of days
and the smile of light footfall,
barefoot communion,
electrifying praise.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 13, 2017
No comments:
Post a Comment