As if
I could find metaphors
for God
or Grief
or the way a heart shreds in on itself
and tries to mend again,
I pick up the pen
hoping that an angel with wide wings
will clasp it and form the words for me
that will heal or praise or claim
my broken place
in the Universe
as holy space.
Holy
because oceans have parted there
rivers cleaved rocks
valleys fell from mountaintops
and wind opened gorges –
the carvings of a soul by God
to make sacred
before the return of it.
Grief and God are in small things too –
a box of keys in a top drawer with
no matching keyholes to put them in,
shoes wait that feet won’t fill,
a small notebook with only the first page filled,
a hairbrush woven with white strands,
a set-down watering can,
a bookmark tucked in for the night –
These are pauses large as a universe
and yet,
I wander in wondrous surprise and awe
out in the neglected garden –
a sweet cherry tomato grows, bursting red
and hard as a marble,
I pop it in my mouth and the blood seeds scatter-
a yellow-petaled flower has pierced its raw, proud head
through the earth and aims it gloriously at the sun.
And I, hand in hand with the angel,
find my metaphors.
