The movement so strong
as to sling leaves by like bullets
as to suck breath asunder
as to bend the backs of bridges
The pressing so fierce
as to stutter the storm door
as to fidget the frantic chime
as to worry the family dog
whose ears stand high
whose eyes grow bold
whose nose is posed for the passing scent
Into my soul, I pray my Lord, blow.
Into my dank dimness, I pray my Lord, force the fresh fragrance of the Holy.
©2012 Judy H. Eurey