The Book of Hours

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Disciplines are good for the soul, they say.
They say.
My mind flutters with ordinary thought.
Of murder and creation.
Paint splatters and fine lines.
This squishy brain has difficulty with order.
The same. The same.
Daily office seems like a lovely thought.
Or theory.
Not in practice.
I cannot help it.
God help me from being a ticking clock.
Counted.
Measured.
Predictable and known.
But known by You all the same.
Lord, meet me between the marks of the second hand.
Or just after.
Or just before.
Your beloved skims along the hem…
Flirts with tangled fringes.
Sometimes breathing in the blue hour,
Other times the rosy dawn.
Amber sunsets.
Sapphire night.
Hour unknown.
Unkept.
Wild and undisciplined.
Look upon me with love
for the duration of this imperfect life.
My book of hours.

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4 responses to “The Book of Hours

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