You’re fiery, like a faraway sun
but I can hold you
and get burned the same
over and over again
-except it’s strangely more comforting
because I don’t want to learn
anything that takes me away from light
because my corner is so very dark
and we are warmth and hope
in a small but exploding world.

It’s not quite winter but some trees
have given themselves over to the sleeping
season, bare branches brushing the sky,
or at least low-lying clouds.

I’d like to remember what drew me here
without the specter of sentiment
meant for someone else, because maybe
there’s no redundancy when a heart speaks.

I watch branches shivering in a winter storm
like lovers dancing around foggy notions
of freedom, purpose, and what will be.

My improbable start with the Benedictines
doesn’t fully explain the degree of
self-loathing that often has a firm grip.

The quiet and raging rituals were frightening
and it’s taken half a lifetime to accept
a small voice can be the right one.

Perhaps I didn’t have enough time
with the Baptists for more than a breather
or the Quakers with their zen waiting or
the Lutherans or the Presbyterians
before finding Methodists a middle ground
for my wandering and wondering.

Mostly, what I hold closest I find
in the woods or in a smile or in a cup of tea-
what I don’t understand, I now embrace.