For Hymn, the Bell Tolls

Rovinj

 

Toll, ancient bell,

Ring home my wayward heart;

Sing to my soul,

Lest from the truth I part.

Chime, ancient notes,

To strum my wand’ring strings;

Peal forth your hymn,

To give my spirit wings.

Once, When Looking Up

yellow aspen

I see You there, covering

me – a cathedral ceiling

of finespun gold, aspen-boughs

crowning my way with glory.

.

I hear You in the whisper,

silent assignations passed

from one trembling yellow throat

to another, gentle sighs.

.

I feel Your gaze rocking me sweet,

and I breathe, slow and deep, pause

mid-stride to rest in dappled

acceptance, cherished by shade.

.

You are here. You, Your essence,

Your presence – it sings, sunshine

in shadow, gold filigree

on an altar made of wood.

.

Splintered, I crack open. Your

notes rustle in my veins, seep

past knots, and I’m rooted here,

utterly, completely me.