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