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Wednesday, August 5, 2015

The Wisdom of August



I wake up on the threshold of a prayer,
knowing that the words “Dear Creator…”
are hyperlinks opening a thousand doors. 
I awake knowing that when we speak or think
those words, we shift worlds, change the direction of time,
move in a dance that unlocks, releases -
now I can’t express it – the pathway I saw,
that liminal gate; all the precise silver
verbs slip away from me.  What I have left:
Dear Creator.  I repeat it to myself
in bed, in the garden’s green light,
my face full of sun.  Try to follow the words
back in, breadcrumbs back into the mystery.

Deborah A. Miranda

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