The plane descends into a wet Maharashtrian night.
God help me, I’m in Your territory again.
How lovely to embrace old friends
and garland the stones of the ones gone on.
The earth is a lighter place, spinning faster,
since those pure doves took flight.
Tonight, my heart’s fire rages;
is that You, Beloved, dancing among the flames?
Intoxicated by Your voice,
I’ll praise You with Your own words.
My words are beginning to slur.
Maybe I should just hum an old Bob Brown melody.
O child of God, when words fail, praise Him with your eyes,
your
improbable dancing body;
allow your heart an improvisation on His silent, holy hymn.
(from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)
(from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)
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