Delicate to My Fault

I saw her yesterday, finger to chin, eyes on fire:
divine cloud, Shekinah:
holy presence wholly present
in curiosity, a new born leaf
trembling at sun, rain, day, night,
coming to light with different kinds
of wisdom.  She readily weeps
with enchantment.  I wonder
if this tearing thunder
is a gift I can bear.
Dare I step under this yoke?
Incognito, unannounced, and
unconditionally vulnerable, she is not so much
angelic as delicate to my fault:
wet ink on paper
shimmering yet shivering at
the thought of being smeared.

 

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