HUMAN PSYCHE

spring-cleaning

here it is, and i now myself realize it has been here 

and yet only i did not know how to recognize it;

it was not huddled in the corner

nor swept away into the attic.

here it persisted, in this aching shrine that you

vacated for me in your lap, carved out 

with years of sacrifice and sweat.

that onerous mountain of you,

that had let itself wear away

under the unpredictable will 

of this wrathful water to run wild,

as if at the mercy of a potter's hands

was brought down to kneel and bend

here: at this cold stone, 

this stubborn obsidian

that would not budge, 

this winter-hardened stream

that had frozen so suddenly 

that the dark mud beneath 

had not yet settled

here, in your lap-shrine

where you bend in prayer

your fingers pressed against the ice

fumbling through frost for the cracks.

it was here, in that snow-blind faith,

that only that muddled water could 

wash those fingers clean and pure,

that i found what i had faithlessly

believed had long been misplaced