PSYKHE

Semi-Abbreviated Version

 

A speck of vivid,

I see it follow fitfully in zigs

Until it lands on my hand,

All quivering color.

 

I am tempted to possess it,

Pressing it into a book with my leaves,

With a beloved’s leave I weaved into a poem,

The final word spoken the first of its verse.

 

If I should dare to breathe God’s breath,

I would recite as I exhaled outwards,

See my poem quicken and quiver,

Mimicking this butterfly.

 

Attuned to my telepathy,

The butterfly opens then closes its wings

Like two hands peaking in prayer.

Perhaps, it sends a signal to its kind.

 

More of them are gliding our way.

What am I to decipher

From their stripes, their spots,

Their iridescent dots?

 

We are prone to ignore

The progenitor of mystery

As merely God,

Still desperate to be known.

 

He has no tongue to speak to us,

No hand to sign us Her thoughts.

Piteous, let us show Him our mercy.

It is as if She is hidden away.

 

So too am I, on a bench off to the side,

Reposed in the shade of a tree,

Its branches bowed to the ground,

The hallowed ground near the lake.

 

I try to envision who might read

Or listen to my future revelations.

I fear they will not,

And walk away, or turn the page.

 

Mercy!

I must rive this reverie and rise.

As its kindred crowds the sky,

I bid adieu to the joy on my hand.

 

A rippling river of grass

Invites me into its swim,

The butterflies wavering above,

The dragonflies diving beneath.

 

Not just the heartbreaker,

I also seek the Alpha and Omega,

His clues, Her hues

Flung everywhere.

 

Inexplicably,

If God should prove elusive,

Consider His humans:

Once determined, forever sleuths.

 

 

Franciscan Retreat Center

Prior Lake, Minnesota

 

August 12th, 13th, 20th, 2016

Last Line Revised, August 25th, 2016

Further Line Revisions, August 30th, 2016


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