Sometimes a storm strips my mind
down to a puff, a bird’s
cry for mercy and worms.
And I, in my now naked head,
wander back to the monastery,
the grotto, the place my parents brought me
when I was young. God was always a cloud,
beams streaming through gray,
like my most brilliant self.
Copyright March 13, 2011
*This poem first appeared in the Fall 2012 edition of The Spirit that Moves Us.