On my knees, earnestly confessing…
it seems I lost my train of thought
and then I realize: no,
it was stolen—not by the devil
but by the Beloved, who runs off,

I return to my confession but I am
interrupted by a bird on the windowsill,
singing beautifully to me. To me.

In the tight fist of my confession
I glimpse the secret: not shame
but a great loneliness.
I dare not open its hand.

But it opens.

Sometimes I feel I am winding sheets,
grave clothes tangling the Lazarus inside me,
trying to keep him down,
but he hears,
he hears
and he rises.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light

September 30, 2021

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