page 88

we have to do it;

the muscles in our hands
are begging for release.

if we wish to be more hospitable to others,
we must abandon the knob;

it is a celebration in-and-of-itself
for us to unlatch the door;

yet, it is of the highest vulnerability
for us to

leave

the door
                open.

:::

it is a pitcher;

one that patiently waited on the shelf.

ready to be poured.

cast by a hand,

it is pouring out

liquid foreign to me until now.

it continues to pour,

and the angle climbs in its acuity.

the faster and faster it pours.

~

what about emptiness?

will it ever be emptied entirely?

is vacancy the surest way to knowing

why, now, love chooses to be poured?

:::

this shelter, this building.

this place i used to call "home".

is mine no longer.

a place i have outgrown.

i said to heaven a time ago,

"tell me there is more than

these four walls i own."

the heavens answered to me,

If home is where love must belong,

It cannot by contained;

Love is a shelter without restrain.

A wall less house.

A windowless pane.

Home is the love from all in life

that make you gain.

Love in a home is a ball with a chain.

Home in a love is a bird without a cage.

You will never be sick

if home is a picture without a frame.

A place you go within others

whose home is a love you claim.

:::

You are a well

with a bucket tied to a rope.

You ration Your portions

for which i cannot cope.

i need more. i want to jump.

save Your stone walls.

without them there i would drown.

surely i would fall.

:::

when you have so much to give,

but you can only give so much;

go to reach for his or her shoulder,

but you pull back on your touch.