All that lands in mortal heart…
as bird that lands soft, but soon to part;
In palm of hands, the cup that thirsts-
cannot grasp tight, lest all love bursts.
So fragile is our love desired,
even disguised as ‘ideal acquired’:
all hands that hold this bird in grasp
live out the blow of hearts due gasp.
For no worldly thing may fill this Cup;
the Palm find reaching farther up:
in the bend holds Chalice of the gold,
granted from ancient seeded Fold.
Heart-worldly fragile love finds ashes…
bleeds the letting vein ’til crashes.
Only the soul may keep this Dove…
a testament, all – to God above.
Oh alone, alone
all must be sown…
Seed home, lone, my Lord, that home.
Hand to open in Love’s joy now known.
Your own, I am
Lord, vein to Heart;
all that begins, is born apart.
Sweet Love’s Child in the breaking sown.
I am, I am
Your Own come home.
©2015 Linda Willows