Shoulder season

The Spirit keeps reaching,
gripping my shoulders, telling
me to sit, stay a while.
Over my shoulder, promising,
promising soon, soon,
surging on to one more thing,
I feel the snag of her fingers
between my bones, aching from
raking leaves, wrestling sleep.
I am afraid that I will turn back
to find her before me, square
shouldered, crossed arms,
feet planted firmly as
a brick wall; or that after all she
will finally let me go.

This entry was posted in Advent Meditations, poetry, prayer and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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