Lovers of God can't spell.
God's name wanders through every sound
from Alpha to Omega, from Ah to Hum,
containing all vowels and consonants
in the music of our mistakes -
the sound of frogs rehearsing for dawn,
the sound of chrysanthemum buds
gurgling rain into their seed bellies,
the sound of lovers turning over in the dark,
making love before they wake,
and this sound - listen! - the blood
tumbling down from a mountain of silence
through the whispering forest of memory
into the sparkling pool of your heart.
Good luck spelling that name of God!
A sigh, however it comes out, is true.
What breath is not a revelation?
The frogs pause, then start over again.
They'll get it right.
The peonies burst open, do you hear their cry?
What morning is not the morning of the world?
When your longing is sincere, whatever sound it makes
is God's sweetest name.
Remember what you said when you discovered a newborn fawn
gazing out of the long grass with the eyes of your mother?
The sound of your amazement was the Lord's most secret name.
Make up your own language, spelling doesn't matter.
Leave the classroom and tear off your shoes!
Run through luscious stinging dewy pathless green.
From your belly to the soft spot
where foolishness becomes the sky,
sing the silliest holiest name of all.
What sound is your breath making now?
Look, even the weeds are blossoming,
each tiny petal scribbled with a syllable of prayer!
