All the busy servants
of your work
are trembling and silent
here in the bloom
of your strange blessing.
Everywhere, the stories
you sent us
are stirring into
a kind of gentle
consummation. Do you
recognize my giddy
heart? Can you
discern how its bones
have made a
spectacle of
waiting? All along
the way you've
talked and burned.
My silence is
the history of adoration,
the secret genius
of losing, a swoon
of thyme and thunderstorm,
the way the mountain smells
as you climb it.
----©Laura Sorrells 2014
all rights reserved
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