Gathered holy clothes off the
Sunday floor,
shades down darkness
let linger a touch of time to prime us
Scrubbing faces and fingernails
for church
we search familiar streets
to find the seats that
wait to meet us and our borrowed sorrows
One sigh and
alltheweekisgone
we weave our thoughts and graces
into sacred spaces
mumble words-not yet words
and unformed prayers
prepared for us to breathe
Together touch
peripheral lovers
watching Love
and waiting.
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this is about the place under your watch that never sees the sun
kind ones' faces
About Me
- Amy McPherson
- Writing is the space that you need to make sense of things. Like gaps between words...not necessary but very helpful.
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