Stop Now. Sounds.

 

Stop Now. Sounds.

(“Or do you have so little regard for his rich kindness, his restraint, and his patience, that you ignore the fact that the purpose of God’s kindness is to lead you to repentance?” Romans 2:4)

Stop now.
Sound out the top of the silent suns
wrapping the grand, warming the sand
while the tides ebb unconsciously.

I can hear myself growing older,
years like wind, like sails, like friends
who streak across the night sky. Shooting
star
how I wonder who you are.

I would rather borrow your eyes than
rewrite our conversations. I would rather
drive by the coast as the cliffs twist by.
I would rather squint in the light than to
strain to see you appear in the dark night hallways.
I would rather let the questions go unanswered.

Stop now.
Sound surround us. I’m up for a night of repentance.
Nothing is wasted in this universe,
everything is borrowed. It was all here first.
But your story, your spiral, your skying face and
your carousel feet carry my mind to better places.

We can light the candles, break the bread,
sweep the sidewalks, plan ahead,
fasten the nails so the pictures don’t fall
on the floor.
We can feed the poor. We can read some more
until
our shells are broken, until every unspoken story
is written across the sky.

Until we all

Stop now.
While the sounds of undancing whistle like morning,
like handfuls of birdsong with lyrics hidden within
the center of everything.