We are vessels,
cracked and humming,
porous with ache and astonishment—
receiving more than we can cradle.
The sun pours its gold
into our thin skin
and we call it warmth,
but it is worship—
unasked for, constant, blinding.
We are given
the shimmer of rain on asphalt,
the hush of dusk when the sky
forgets its name and turns to color—
and we pretend it is passing,
as if passing could ever be so exact.
Emotion—
not the pedestrian kind,
not the shrugged heartbeats of daily ache,
but the impossible tidal grief
of seeing a child's laughter
and feeling ancient joy
burst through ribs
as if they are not bone
but lattice for something older.
Do you feel it?
When a tree stands too still in the wind,
not defiant, but reverent.
When the silence between two people
is not emptiness
but too much meaning
pressed into the same moment.
We are not equipped—
our lungs cannot inhale this beauty
without bruising,
our minds cannot reason
why the stars keep
offering themselves
to a planet that barely looks up.
Yet the divine does not pause.
It spills.
Into eyes that cannot bear it,
into hands that shake from holding
too many sacred things
they cannot name.
We are wreckage and cathedral.
We are trembling chalices,
spilling divinity like wine
on the altar of living.
This is what it means
to carry the divine—
to be a door
that keeps swinging open
no matter what
comes through.
As if it isn't just God,
in fragments,
slipping through our chests,
burning us honest.
(As if fragments of God
aren't stitched into our nervous systems,
each spark
a holy flare
dragging clarity
up through the dirt of us.)
