I once heard that all of us are mystics
Who are brave enough not to overthink things
And are willing to pen the radical truth
I used to pray for miracles, an indisputable
Interaction with the Divine itself (who knew,
I just had to pick up a pen)
Perhaps keeping up with chipmunks, clouds
Is enough to call myself brave, to admit to myself
They can talk… (So says the moon,
As I sit underneath her tonight) at the
Breaking of dusk, the darkness of soul
Where the silk worm curls up in cocoon
To begin her messy, melting transformation
Into God herself, up through her lit crown
Into a labyrinth of stars, nearing its center
Where she – the soul – can throw one down,
Back to the Earth, for any ears that will hear,
A flaming ball of words and commas
Entering the waiting atmosphere, hoping to
Catch someone’s attention, snag a heartbeat,
Even if it’s only at the edge of periphery