Julian of Norwich
Everything I do I do for you.
Brute. You inform the dark
inside of stones, the winds draughting in
from this world and that to come,
but never touch me.
You took me on
but dart like a rabbit into holes
from the edges of my sense
when I turn, walk, turn.
I am the hermit whom you keep
at the garden’s end, but I wander.
I am wandering in your acres
where every step, were I
attuned to sense them,
would crush a thousand flowers.
(Hush that’s not the attitude)
I keep a room prepared and no one comes.
(Love is the attitude)
Canary that I am, caged and hung
from the eaves of the world
to trill your praise.
He will not come.
Poor bloodless hands, unclasp.
Stiffened, stone-cold knees, bear me up.
(And yet, and yet, I am suspended
in his joy, huge and helpless
as the harvest moon in a summer sky.)