by Gideon Burton
A phrase that arches upward, over, down,
transparent in the flow of lesser things.
A quietness that sounds the depths of sound;
a softness, wind on petals in the Spring.
Not wholly ghost: bright shadows just in sight,
warm residue that stings me as I seek
and seek again His tactile calm, this slight
perception strength's returned to me while weak.
Rich present of His presence, plain and near
and nearer, breadth inside of breath, the red
of blood, the pulse of sudden healing clear
as creamy moonlight though the daylight's fled.
A single note, a beacon strobing slow;
this quiet, constant friend, this God I know.
Photo: flickr - familymwr