The whispers of vapor on the horizon
seem to spell out words, I'm learning your
surfaces and looking through the mirror
into a story that reflects the light
of a face, of a wandering luminary.
Her traveling hair reflects the lamp light
and gold sparks trail up into the heavens
from a flame that shifts without a sound.
But the theses of the fire, the argument
of the water, the rhetoric of the rain,
the propositions of wind are meaningless
in the mysterious grace of the beloved,
whose library extends beyond perception
and is the reservoir of our salvation.
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