I think there must be a window
and I think it must
open onto lights
and air blowing down the hills, above
I think there must be a cup
steaming hot on the counter
I think my clothes must be loose
and worn, and my hands lined
but still strong, worn down to muscle
I think my eyes are blurred
I think I think I am a fool
to be walking halls
that have collapsed, logs burning
spirit released, curling, unto the sky
but me, who held faith
I am sometimes granted mercy
and it brushes across my eyes
blurs them with the ghost
of the one who could kneel on the sand
to pray against the morning
No comments:
Post a Comment