Friday, May 6, 2011

And perhaps reach out for Him

I asked my eyes if they'd take time
To rest on the sky today.
They complied, focusing on clouds
Almost too high to rain.

White, unblemished fingers,
Reached out from crumpled bodies
Gripped the sapphire ceiling.

Swaying ever-very-slightly,
Inviting shadows of platinum,
Light gray.

I thought to myself, "we're not so different..."
...Refuse release in our own way...

We grip the skies we paint ourselves,
As if Heaven means "more! tightly".

My own livid greens and angry reds
Exist unhinged,
Not lively.

These blues,
Light hues...
...This moment wherein I, again, choose...

Thanks be to He!
Another May-summer muse
Has cleaned my pride
In spite of me.

Acts 17:24-27

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