I sit in early morning with the one I love

our altar candle brighter

than the sunlight spreading on the lawn.

We are broken.

We have fallen under plow blades

and been planted into one another.

Now we trust one whose face we’ve never clearly seen.

In the northwest corner of the dining room

still within shadow

I see the outline of a body made of light and shadow.

Under a photograph of earth taken from the moon

someone is standing

someone who will not intrude

but whose hands are always raised in blessing.



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