The Gift

The gift


She is, or was not she. It was what I wanted of her
that I wished she would be – and not off white but
of white; however if she wore pearl gray then with
a dove – no not a dove but a goose purer than a

And a stone; there must be a stone tied with prayers
around the good gooses neck so that angels who
monitor such assents will never attempt to fly so high
forgetting that in earth homes children plod and climb


Not on a cloud, but as a cloud that rains and fills rivers
and freshens our upturned faces with tears – reaching to
and touching us with divinity. But unless we see her
through half closed eyes and shield ourselves from her

the sight of her will be as dangerous as a poem gone
mad with loneliness – she is not another goddess
looking for love to conquer her intensity or ambiguity.
She is not what you thought after all or all along as


She is far away and distant and like the wind here or
there touching all that you have wanted to touch
and holding all that you have been too afraid to hold
without demanding from you a commitment to her or

And she reminds me that I am a heart breathing chalice
and not a body weighted with stones and drowning or
a face looking up through the surface of a lake with a
memory that once upon a time I might have been even




Image by permission Steven Kenny


3 responses to “The Gift

  1. Amen for this hymeneal for animae.

  2. the sight of her will be as dangerous as a poem gone
    mad with loneliness

    Wow… I was reminded of Gibran as I read your post…

  3. Thank you for being around again, as I am, and reminding us of your archives. I am alternately distressed and hopeful with this. Much of wonderment; I take with me your heart breathing chalice, especially.

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