If I take
the moments of my life
tie them to each other, neatly
and the axis of experience
perhaps the colors would stream
from heaven, down
we could each grab a ribbon
and chase our tails
around and
around and
in a backwards glance
we might see the Maker there
come to join the procession
to drink the voices
to laugh in the recesses
of our sight
to desire
and then
to be gone
slipped inside
through the breath
like the presumptuous
spirit He is.
I say
Let Him in.
I will run faster
on the petals of offerings
I will trail my billows behind me
like a scent

I will say
catch me if you can.
(but don’t look back - no
to look in the
face of desire
is to see the spiral.)
If you enter me,
you’ll find that it gets dark in here
if you take me, perhaps
I will leave you to stumble
in the caves of the human mind
these tired themes of life
we spin around, and
these memories and colors
will sing you in circles.
Father of Riddles, how you panic
inside what I know.
When you are lost in the pattern, perhaps
I will come inside you
I know well that I can
You forget, Maker,
who made you
I remember
having to relearn it every time
a woman bears me.  She calls me daughter
but you were gone
long before that naming-day.
I will remind you. 
Come inside.
When the dawn intrudes
and I rise up from the dirt
my ribbons in shreds under my knees
and you are gone

perhaps, this time
I will have engendered