Sweet cajoling
It’s never been much of a mystery, this poetry;
short on ambiguity, esotericism, obfuscation.
Very little sentimentality or frivolity.
Heavy-handed as a poet; heavy-handed as a seeker,
let me now cease my loud, unseemly protestations
and merely lean against Your door;
let my heart do the pleading, its subtle rhythm,
humble ardor catching Your ears.
The world is at my back,
having lost its coherence.
Its music no longer enchants,
no longer intrigues, no longer frightens,
as my pressing heart and ear listen and thirst
for the perennial beauty of Your ancient silence.
O child of God, whisper your sweet cajoling.
He is nearer than your own breath.
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