We Must Come Home to Remember

The baptism of the awake mind,
the sacred flux of spirit into body,
is hungry like fire
needs air
to breathe.

This garden, peckish for flowers
and the fruit, that flummoxed
mothers and fathers into pitching
the good sense to listen
to God, is fading at the edge
of the coldest of seasons.

Eyes wide open
we dive in to the icy current

forgiving ourselves

for forgetting

what we must come home
to remember.

Hear the language of love
and weep for joy
at that sweet song.