The Cathedral without Doors

Even your metaphor is never still, never stable.

One day, you are the cat, all claws & contention

&, every now and again, slumber under the summer sun.

The next, you are the hummingbird, brilliance without

break, a fervent flutter, constant question, restless ache.

Others, you are naught but mist and mystery, metaphor given

ephemeral shape, something in which I could get lost,

nothing I could ever begin to contain.

More and more, you are a cathedral without doors,

a vast fortress of reverence and light and colors

cascading through cavernous corridors. I have sat

outside your tall windows and watched. I have kept

quiet vigil, waiting to find the ways in which you

open.

Then, yesterday, you took my hand and let me in,

let me see where the ideas spill out unformed and

unready, let me worship without words what I have

wanted without end. Yesterday, you let me in and

showed me the constellations native to your skin,

&I made my home under that sky for as long as you

let me.

I'll keep a home under your sky as long as you'll

let me.

4/18/2018