She, in Sacred Time

It is a wonder, that as years form landscapes,

Orchestrating winds and rains, sun and moon,

Eroding, shifting, sands, rock-face, or woodland.

Such the wonder, a frightful encompassing hand,

Whittles bones, cracking skin, every day, ever soon,

'Til our emerging ghosts, tempered, reveal their shape,

In fading glory.

It is a mystery, that the one whose eyes hold me dear,

Once a stranger, now the sun I circle in love's gravity, 

Captured I - dry and pocked,  like a waterless moon,

Surrendered. She- tending as a gardener at high noon,

O'er years her charity, in lament, in grace and sagacity, 

For better or for worse, never ceased to hold me near,

Limping t'ward glory.

It is an awe, that many waters cannot quench the love,

Though my back bends to wind, rain, sun and moon,

While my spirit kneels trembling in the fearful presence,

A burning coal purging mouth and mind in holy penance,

She, my sun, lifts my gaze that we both may swoon,

Greying, bending, young again old souls, partaking of,

Bread, wine, glory.

She,

Renita,

Awakens me.