Giver

Your breath is the Giver,

not merely the gift.

The Ruh who danced with Allah,
the Shakti who sported with Shiva,

Hokmah Sophia

frolicking with Jesus

at the sunrise of creation.

In stillness She swirls galaxies.

Her lips light every world

with a mother's kiss.

Whatever greens and grows

she moistens with tears

of compassion.

Whoever dies 

has already been hugged home 

to her body of sacred darkness.

I keep telling you:

she pours herself down your spine,

filling your beaker from belly to brow.

Through your eyes,

through the quietest touch 

of toes on soil,

you spill her nectar.

You fertilize the earth with her.

And what to say of your fingers?

They are her stained beams

of careless grace.

O you, her profligate wine steward,

why not invite strangers

and enemies to the wedding?

I keeping telling you,

but you think it's only a poem.

There's no time left for metaphor.

Her crystal sweetness surfeits 

every cell of your marrow.

Your flesh is her honey comb.

The soft spot in your crown

is a fountain of starlight,

and the stars whose fire has

not yet reached you

are pollen on her naked feet.

What is this human form

but a wick of sugar caramelized

in her slow burning flame?

Through every fiber, every nerve

flow rubies and emeralds 

of her excess.

She streams you.

Breathe her.

Love cannot wait.

_______________________

Painting by Sue Ellen Parkinson