The Idea of God Flies Away

Last night I went to bed in darkness,
Blind to the presence of the lake outside my window.
This morning I gaze upon the snow covered expanse,
Quiet in holiness—a white silence
That says both nothing and everything.

The trees on the mountain are bare,
No apparent sign of life, yet they wait,
Singing in their quiet way of tenacity, hope, prayer,
Waiting for the return of spring.
Do they know greening is possible?  Do they care?

The whole world turns in its perfect imperfection.
If only I had more than one pair of eyes to see,
Wings to soar, petals of the heart to blossom,
Open fully to the fragrance that now lies wrapped
In the silent praise of soul.

So many thoughts I cannot think,
Depth of feeling too deep for words,
A tongue that cannot taste the fullness of the delicacy
Laid before me.  The idea of God flies by
In the form of a bird, flying away.

I cannot hold the Presence;
Cannot touch Holiness nor can I capture love.
But I can reach out.  Keep my heart open,
Aware of the clear, blue air.


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