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And I Have Shed No Tear Since

I haven’t cried since July third
when I became nothing but paper and pen
tossed carelessly on an empty wooden bench

where the leafy canopy was a halo,
wrapping in yellow my
blue ink smudges still searching

for God in the margins.
It was almost enough that I could be ruffled by the wind,
modest enough for a deer to trust

yet alert enough to free thought,
like light releases summer’s colors—
brilliant linens and blinding daffodil.

But then I became like too many unanswered prayers,
verses pleading for truth and certainty,
each line as biting and unforgiving as the next,

until a river ran through me.
Each tear was a question,
ruining every controlled motion of my pen.

All I knew, once darkness fell,
was what star to look for,
if not where to find it,

and I was numb
both to the blackness of the night
and the quiet warmth of the moon.