Liberation

Let it come --
whether it rises from the well of grief
or pitches forward in predatory longing,
though it tumbles from a nameless source
or strikes out from fleeting solitude.
Cut a path.
Trim the reluctance,
that in its pruned protests
fear will know your naked gaze,
hiding impossible
for you
or the phantom thoughts
scurrying ahead of so much
stainless posturing and well-tended order.
The agenda can wait.
So, too, the lists
and needs that steal you
from this soul prayer.
Let it come --
the aching loneliness,
the unshed tears.
Swing into this sorrow,
sublime, serrated --
a secret freed at last
to the sieve in the hands
filled with Light.