Sitting inside on the edge of nowhere;
In a space not yet created, but occupied still.
There is a moan high on the wind above,
That speaks a tongue I do not know.

So I stand and wait for the Star to arrive.

 The sky is emblazoned with fine points of contagion,
As Love tearfully sews the Light into darkness;
A glowing fabric gathered in folds,
Nestled in layers of infinite moments.

I wait to be tucked into time’s parting embrace.

But sleep does not come from this blanket of comfort,
Brilliantly pierced with the passion of toil.
Dreams only come from those pricked by the needle,
Who hasten the hue in the garment of Life.

I open my hands to cup the oncoming wake.

 Creation stares down into the now-filling space,
Lighting in smiles of so many torn pieces.
The cries of the mourning prepare for the piercing,
As Love sweetly delights in the patchwork assembly.

I find my own place in Heaven’s shimmering cape.

 

tpt 1/6/17