Mine is flinty at best, a fire struck with stone and char.
Cluttered with the junk
of music and metaphor,
it sometimes moves
through me brumal and wracked.
When it’s gone, I grow foot-sore from pacing,
with fear it will never come back.
But then, it does with its yes and now, bringing both
the tiny storms of summer—
the deep after-rain smell of earth—
and the sorry news of the world,
all of it sweeping toward me from a great far away.
I hold out my hands for its must-have grace.
Put in motion under a weld of stars
when good times are scarce,
it comes as a bridge I am called to cross,
cables harping in the wind,
the Milky Way falling toward me but not quite.
Never the same, it comes back.
I put my hand into its fire
until there’s no more pain,
but clean white bones
and my mouth
something like prayer.