What My Soul Looks Like

If I could know what my soul looks like

I think I’d see a rocker on a hardwood floor

creaking quietly the heart of its rhythmic chant —

I’d touch with clutching hands the worn silk

or cotton foldings of an elder’s garb —

I’d feel myself in every curve and corner

like the last puzzle piece put back into

the one and only place in the cosmos

from which it was cut, to which it must return —

I’d hear my name the way it must have sounded

in purity of silence before ever being spoken,

before anything on earth had ever heard its name —

I’d look into oceanic depths of the kindest eyes

and feel their pulsing colors painting the canvas

of me always alive and safe and whole —

I’d know for the first time the blessed absence

of a cold longing that can only end in the warmth

and abiding foundness of an all-embracing Love.

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