I face the east
in the morning;
breathe the golden
light into my pores;
drink its liquid warmth
with eyes still sticky
from fading dreams.

Did the Night
leave these streams
of Joy and Wonder
in my heart?
The quiet, secret gifting
of some stealthily
tiptoeing Saint,
visiting the vulnerability
of my humble bed,
where I roll slowly
like a lazy wave, whispering
a single Name, again
and again; the mantra
that just might save me.

Does everyone have
such babbling brooks within?
Wetting the rocks of reason,
filling veins with water-
turned-to-wine by
the Loving Master’s Hand;
silver-white frothy bells tinkling
tunes of obstinate grace.
Never mind the logs
and litter obscuring the path.

I raise my hands
to Heaven, and
my feet cramp
for lack of dancing.

Let the Holy Water flow;
spill out into the street,
warp the floorboards
of the house wherein I hide.
Till I wade waist-deep
in the God Who courses~
invigorating, free

~Cheryl Anne

Woman Wading, by Francesco Spicuzza

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