Monday, January 03, 2011

Poetry of Wolves

I long for the rapture of my body touching yours, skin against skin ~ spirit to spirit. For now I conjure secret, hidden raptures, when I hear your voice on the phone or when I gaze at your picture, which sits at my bedside.

I long to bloom in your ecstacy, and feel its imprint upon my lips.

When, when, can we harvest our healing? Shall we harvest spoonful by spoonful? I must accept whatever you give me, of your healed self, however small, however large. How shall I wear my healing, as I await? Perhaps I must cast my net in your shadow, or perhaps, I should try to wait for you without seeking any more pieces of your heart and its substance.

For now, though, I wait, floating in the cosmic limbo of my heart, ever striving to touch heaven and glimpse God's heart.

images by: (1) andrew gonzalez (2) rodrigoluff
(3) azriel 911


Roselle Quin said...


claire said...

Yes, beautiful

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