At the divesting, of all days,
you reveal yourself, Bella Rosa.
Illuminated, not before any;
but the one, that rests beside your bed.
Keep your regular times,
bide your time, alone, at times.
Afore, strongly did you proclaim,
seek one, more,
of special aspect, aspierents.
None could know,
but they, apparently.
So, that is change, is it not?
Likely you have not now,
the apt lingua franca
in your letterwriting pens, wands,
to let flow, emotive quests my way.
This threshold of day
and then crossroads,
beg the question of a heart one way,
And so I turn and turn,
cards, pillows, stones ...
I am ready, sun
oh, so ready, darkness,
to be swept off my feet, bodily,
by that healing wave that crashes, into such certitude.
Would kick down that door you held before me,
and then we might save us,
from final deluge.
What a story to be,
less penned, more sung, heroically,
by our rubbing bones!
Tell me not, reader of Psalms,
keeper of the font
that church door was only open,
solely, for Christmas devotions,
or just past, the scratching post?