Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Day Forty-Three

The Anchor

Drip. Drop. Drip. Spin.
Color.
It is my toe-nail polish,
I am barefoot in a church.
My feet are naked on hard,
Wood floors.
The hole is in my pants,
Not in my life.

Strangely.
The drip. Drop. Drip. Spin.
Color,
Is slipping from a lovely lollipop,
Licked not, by me.
It is stained glass,
The flavor experienced by a tongue
with spikes.
Poking holes, just enough to release
The dreams, bright and love.

The pieces of the window are swinging,
Through what is broken the fluffy full
floats down.
It is a miracle I jumped into long ago.
The glow of it, I am still receiving.
And I moan, shoes empty on the floor.
Feet free in Christ's living room.

I wait for someone to throw a rock,
And find they are naked also.
Hands empty of stones.
So we open our mouths,
As the sweet saliva, sacred water -
Drip. Drop. Drip. Spin.
Colors our throats and we walk
out,
Outcasts.
Painted light.
No windows.

It is not a dream,
We are trusted by Him
To take off our shoes,
Stretching, wiggling our toes
In the comfort of His presence.
We do not slip.

We drip. Drop. Drip. Spin.
Color.
Unusual. Real. Genuine. Pure Love.
And we are completely naked,
At church.