Everything feels more
Better men than me have walked this way.
If there is forgiveness to be had
first I must drop this old, bloody dagger.
Late winter bird songs
no longer hold any secrets for me,
and the dog refuses to translate.
Erase the ash from your forehead
and be made whole.
There is no room for your squeamish social mores here.
These visions are not prophetic,
and the cat playing at your feet
is not a sign of contrition.
The dog interrupts my prayers to go outside
and chase down starlings
because dogs know instinctively
that grace does not come from over-thinking.
It makes each step a pain, like dancing on broken glass
I never thought I deserved it.
Even now, in the light of a day like this,
the first whisper of Spring,
it is difficult to accept
the inherent grace of this hour.
There are mornings –most mornings, still –
I open my eyes and marvel I am not dead
(though my dreams would tell me different)
and I reach for you, amazed in my desperation,
that my mind simply didn’t conjure you
as a defense against this bottomless hole in my chest.
Sweet mirage, warm and soft,
let me drink deep from your waters
as you wipe away these tears.
Let me pray as you breathe life back into me
from your own sacred lips.
This journey wears on me.
The clay packed in my heels is ageless
and makes each step a pain, like dancing on broken glass.
Take your hands, remove these shards
and I shall be healed.
Soothe my nightmares and remind me
one more time
I am allowed to embrace the grace
that has placed me in your arms.