Intercession
What’s real
remains blurred
until we say
its name. Lord,
keep me tethered.
Grief burns
in my throat, but
morning slants
into a new season.
Pear trees
flower along
both sides of
the street
and flex
with wind,
off-white
and pixelated
like lungs
breathing memory
or a frame
from a dream
dissolving
before a shock of
forsythia spikes
the landscape yellow.
The colors flood
through me,
what’s left of me
in the sudden
absence of thought.
Call it happiness.
Call it the center
of a prayer.
What’s left of me
when the images
pour in
like a chant
or a charm
and scatter
into the seamless.
To see
by means
of the unseen.
Lord, keep me
tethered
to meaning:
Your silence
where all things
are holy.
All things
vibrating with
light, April
light. Light
with no winter
left in it. Light
of no other hour.
Dispatch #63