My fingertips are
deep wells in Your body.
That place where passion
shapes longing into form.
Who is the creator here?
Do I sculpt or am I
shaped by Your imagination?
My hands image You
then You compose me
as a poem
or as drops of blood.
The bell ringer
has become the inside of the bell
The drum beats the stick.
Birds nest in my eyes
to give birth to You.
Who is the Goddess
when every flower paints its face
with Your presence?
Who creates thoughts and feelings,
then wears them to be seen?
I am a depth for You
to pray within.
