How do I talk to you about God—
it’s like the silence after OM,
the digestion of communion
the colors of a stained glass window
caught on an open palm.
It is like the darkness,
but sensing from within it.
It’s is like the light,
but moving with it.
It is all the names falling
like cookie crumbs in a pathless forest,
and the raven swooping down
to carry them to heaven.
It is the flute sitting silently on my table,
the one sound in the roar of Seattle at rush hour,
the place where fog lifts off the water, like
for one moment, you can truly give air form.
It is this hand-in-hand moment, touch and release,
but never letting go.