There is a thought, and it is hard to keep a finger on it.
Difficult,
like counting the beating humming bird wings.
You can see it as a blur,
like childhood out of the corner of your eye
Reaching for it only frustrates, trying to hold on...hold on to heartache.
There is love and then there is love
and God lives somewhere in between,
in a place where I can lie with her under an old oak tree
and God is there as the tree,
as my fingers sliding down her back.
God is there as the stiffness growing in my pants,
God is there like electricity and the slow growth of trees.
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