The Clouds Are Not For My Eyes

I stand by - the clouds are not for my eyes. The fog, a light feather that tickles the air I breathe. I stand close to the dew, the dawn consumes. Oh Robin redbreast - your passionate diffuse on high! I stand apart, a sentinel in a shower. The force of words in crowds of two or threes. I don’t find the need to surrender my own, no need, but as the need arises the surprises they hold. I let go, as if doves are released, kisses from God on the sinciput. I anoint with oil, drawing a cross with my thumb on the forehead. Drawing each saint close so we can mutually hear - the hour’s hero, invisible but present. The disjointed saint is comforted. The clouds are not for my eyes. I look up to where He ascends. My face feels the dew of grace. My breath is measured; He knows each hair on my head. I stand by, close, apart - only by His will. I stand still. I stand for Him.