Love is

(Heaven forbid I make too much sense of it.)

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The end of the world. Your world.
The end of ideas (like this one). My world.
It is the end of right and wrong and
it is fire and light. It is living hope. 
It is the loss of everything 
in exchange for Nothing, 
pregnant with it all.

“Do not cling to me.”

Love is the death of sin. 
Of abstraction and separate. 

And it is starting to make sense that 
the spirit is where the freedom is. 

But, heaven forbid 
I make too much sense of it 
for too long.

I’m done with this:
the religion about Jesus.
I’m far more interested in
what was his.

Julian’s true mother. 
Teresa’s bed chamber. 
Mechtild’s Eros. 

But, no need for labels now. 

Talk to me about the bird song 
outside your window at dawn. 
I’ll tell you about how 
my dog barked in my ear 
during my morning prayers, 
and the wonder it is that 
silence gives birth to such sounds. 

Of course it wouldn’t have rung so loud 
if I hadn’t been there to hear it. 

“Do not cling to me.”

In the high desert, 
I am praying every dream 
I’ve ever had and been 
too afraid to ask for, and still: 
thy will be done. 

If the only constant is change, 
and God is unchanging, 
then God is just life, happening, 
and of course I want to give myself to that. 

I mean I wanna be all the way in it. 
I mean I wanna be loved to death. 

I mean I wanna become change like

Love.
Is.