spaces

in the spaces where the sky cuts in

mirage of sunlight bleeds illusion

of far-off tropical storms

two planes converge

seared with purpose

refined of impurities

on curved handle of wood-ax

wake to warm grass

transmuted to frozen blade

scavenging reserves against dying light

though body keeps score,

my God is bigger

than last i struck stone against my skin

a new life of warm milk and kind eyes

drowns ghost of what would've been

without wonderment shaped as my chasm

born beholden to and blessed

by tiny hands

and birthdays and mondays

and something ill-defined in synodic time

with stars awash and muted

so no placement feigns indeliberence

not that of happy little freckles

or silver sky's cold dark

or sweater sleeve against scar

or cards on the table,

where He's made our place

or joy’s etched lines

in my very favorite face

despite fleets of failures

now negated, unsurmounting

Spirit reveals every stitch

i'd trade not for anything

as it threads to ribbons of gifts, worthwhile

counting breaths and sleepy smiles:

it is good to be a builder

it is nice to be a friend

it is fine to find yourself only

in the spaces where the sky cuts in.