things not yet seen
things keeping company hour by hour lifting hands to paper
to shovel and brush and soaped up dishes
I don’t know if it’s become dangerous
this love of things unseen in the alone hours and days spent with these bits of my life.
Sometimes I wonder
but mostly I just keep letting them-as if there was a way to not let them-dance their dance and sing their sing and fling there fling around my brain and into my heart and let them swell my soul even even
oh God even on the days that begin with the dark moon glowing and the windows breezed with the air just right and yet my heart and mind so tripped oh God so tripped over the stubble and bramble that’s taken over in the waiting and timing-not-mine and nothing-is-moving and is-no-one-going-to-believe-(in)-me and what-does-it-take and if it takes
how my God then is that act performed?
What is the dance they dance then, in the just be
This makes no sense
and yet you say it is true.
And you say trust is mine.
yet. what do I do with this aching love of things unseen when nothing seen becomes the things unseen
and I can appear
God bless those who have to look at me like
a despondent lost soul creeping toward disparaging old