To Yahweh"
God is the spray on your lip from the freshly-poured ginger ale.
No, God is the arrival on your lip of the spray. The arcing. The spree.
God is definitely not that weird sexuality of wild bird rehabilitators.
God is, instead, waves blown back hard from the shore. At night.
Perhaps he is the rumbling scaring done by the haunted freight train,
the shrill ghouls in the back cars climbing over each other to escape.
God is weequashing: The spearing of eels or fish from a canoe by torchlight.
God is the inventing of words like weequashing.
She is not the fire darkening down.
She is the goldfinch singing the whisper song.
And the birthing of a second child, to feel your body blooming.
To feel head, then shoulders, thighs then cord tumbling. To live. To life!
To give the initial downbeat to the tympanis. To cure mice by placing them in a cello.
To do whatever the scarecrow did with his brains. And to make that acrid or burned qualit
God is the spray on your lip from the freshly-poured ginger ale.
No, God is the arrival on your lip of the spray. The arcing. The spree.
God is definitely not that weird sexuality of wild bird rehabilitators.
God is, instead, waves blown back hard from the shore. At night.
Perhaps he is the rumbling scaring done by the haunted freight train,
the shrill ghouls in the back cars climbing over each other to escape.
God is weequashing: The spearing of eels or fish from a canoe by torchlight.
God is the inventing of words like weequashing.
She is not the fire darkening down.
She is the goldfinch singing the whisper song.
And the birthing of a second child, to feel your body blooming.
To feel head, then shoulders, thighs then cord tumbling. To live. To life!
To give the initial downbeat to the tympanis. To cure mice by placing them in a cello.
To do whatever the scarecrow did with his brains. And to make that acrid or burned qualit
( Tina Kelley )
www.QuoteSweet.com