We are close to an entrance of some kind,
or someone,
an opening,
or a closing of a wound which is a marriage
a meeting of our incompleteness.
Some kind of power
undresses here, emerges,
full blown but understated.
All our flesh is holding its breath.
Our dreams are dreaming.
We cannot name what is coming,
the volcano of heaven gently rumbling.
Each of us is secretly hoping,
unknowing
our hopes are a net,
unaware of our solitudes melting,
unsuspecting of a love that entangles us
in each other
In eternity
that is already,
and almost.
We are expecting.
The young mother sings a simple tune
we can’t get out of our heads.
—December 12, 2018