Sunday Psalm

Sometimes music is the crowbar

which pries open my spirit.

Melodies warming the flowing

marrow in me.

 

Major and minor tones

plucking at tendons

under the surface

of leathered skin.

 

Each morning, creation

sings praise to all

the light by which I see.

There is joy in the squinting.

 

I feel the notes winged flight

on the scaled heights

of orchestrated air,

I knelt before The Musician.

 

“Will You play it again?

Tomorrow maybe?”

“My symphonies have no end,

you only need receive them.”

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Sunday Psalm

Morning Dew

Unfold my arms,

Relax these tight shoulders.

 

Come, this wide-eyed morning

And lay these hesitancies on the dew.

 

Soak them mercifully, and grace

These fists in their clenched resistance.

 

Palms up, lifeline exposed

In vulnerable sweat.

 

Break upon my heart

Like the broken light,

 

Shards all around.