XXIII

Something is lifting,
before I know its name.
If I’m still, I can see it
coming into frame.

Wind shifts around me,
like weather drawing near,
not a voice, but an opening
I can finally hear.

It climbs up my throat,
takes the air from my lungs.
A sound I can’t contain
only just begun.

Let it move through me,
with nothing to own.
Let it move through me,
bone of my bone.

Down on my knees,
shatter the floor.
Fall into the open,
shackled no more.

Alive in the empty,
awake in the void.
No sound in the absence,
it is only pure joy.

I don’t have to be worthy.
I don’t fear being seen.
To be completely free
of the asking in me.

Let it move through me,
a lark taking wing.
Let it move through me,
with the poet king.

Use up my body
to ring, to resound,
a radiant offering
dwelling here now.

When I lose my voice,
will you lend me yours?
We’ll speak in tongues,
into wide-open doors.

Under the illusion,
beneath conjured lines,
is widening space
of encounters divine.

Let it move through us.
Love is a presence.
Let it move through us,
and we’re incandescent