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Poem

How often have I hesitated,
poised on the brink of "perhaps,"
before unknown paths
that whispered my name.
And there, where the threshold opened
in fevered silence,
I denied the wind its wing,
consecrating the moment
to the still womb of my refusal.
The "yeses" I left unspoken
are grains of light
falling from Mary's womb,
while time holds its breath
in the eternal pause of the Annunciation.
They are Peter’s trembling
on the cusp of the rooster’s crow,
a flickering flame
gathered by forgiveness,
reforged into stone.
The "yeses" I left unspoken
are unseen wounds
in the body of the risen Christ,
traces of nails never driven,
silent as Veronica’s veiled face.
They are Gethsemane’s agony
stripped of words,
the sweat that drips blood
among the gnarled roots of the olive tree,
forever awaiting a dove.
Yet even those unspoken "yeses"
rest in the heart of eternity,
like seeds in the deep furrow
of untouched earth,
and already they stir,
woven with grace,
in the mystery of an hour yet to come.
They are hands brushing the hem,
the blind touch that heals,
they are God’s patient waiting,
brighter than any word unsaid.

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