It is curved, old, deep –
punctured, stretched, twisted.
Emptiness fills its hollow core.
A vibrant electric thrum
bumps along the walls
of this place we know –
do not want to know –
pushed behind our hidden door.

It beckons us from there –
knock, knock, knock.
Our deepest past
calls to us from remote well-springs,
life-bearing pools that seem, in dreams,
to be precipices, hidden caves, cataclysmic seas.

Silence, its name and substance,
waits for us to still, remember, open the door
to let in, at last, sweet mercy –
handmaiden of the living god
however we name her or call the holy.

Portland, Oregon – February 14, 2016

Lenten springtime-Year of Mercy