I want to pray but how do you articulate flowers
and what’s the melody of cuddles and clouds and care?
I’ve not given up on words, it is just that the hours
swell with the sort of love that won’t fit anywhere.

My heart doesn’t quite know how to contain it,
whether ‘it’ is the dull ache of grief or the sweetness of awe,
and whether the matter in mind is loss or gain, it
leaves a trace of His beauty, unspoken and raw.

And so, when my words run out and my syllables stutter
and that which the Spirit prays is a Name, not a phrase,
I gather whatever remains of my self in a flutter
and land like a butterfly on a flower of praise.

And if you believe that is prayer, you are right to say so
and join me in ways that are only revealed by grace.
And if there is such a thing as a God-given tan,-go
and dance on the hillside in the sunlight of His face.

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