Perhaps our

Deepest

Prayers are simply never

Asked –

Yet traced in the faith of

Offered flesh and

Willing touch.

And our response the only

Answer that we need.

There is an

Edge –

Only in our thoughts of

Separation.

Winds blow

Unseen –

Yet every leaf knows the

Taste of their caress.

I doubt not your touch.

No escape.

Life drowns us in its ten

Thousand waves.

Only the infinite remains

Dry.

Rain,

And in between the coming

Drops and hallowed

Ground we are

Asked –

Simply to receive.

maybe I'll regret

this -

these words that tumble unwanted from my

lips in a rush to meet you.

yet maybe still our silence is its

own regret.

and only later do we weep soundless at

our present being.

it seems there's always a maybe at the

end of every moment.

this then is ours…our moment, our question,

our answer.

this is at once our ending and our

hope for a new beginning.

maybe –

this is all we need.

At once…a history traced

Against me –

And a moment passed in

Letting go.

Your hand…and instrument of

My now.

Thoughts passing.

Stillness lies

Beneath.

Here…there is holiness.

From the source…nothing

But what is –

From the source.

And only this is so.