The Prayer of Star-Dust

There are days like today when the weather is crisp,

when there is a crunch to the broken skin of life’s many apples,

and the soft smell of autumnal decay creates this sense of synesthesia—

of the very seasons mimicking the turn of Your professed Love in seasonality

to me, Your silly songbird, and our family of souls suspended temporarily.

In these moments, where even the physical sense of denim’s warmth against thigh

becomes a type of communion ‘tween blushing bride and anticipatory Bridegroom,

I cherish the feel of the cotton You spoke into existence as it surrounds me—

my hoodie acting as a type of tabernacle of Your artistic expression,

a garment turned into intimacy.

The only difference is that the soul who recognizes the Lover’s touch and holds it near,

like beautiful Mary and her precious nard offered without thought as nothing,

contains in its perfumed depths all the mysteries we would ever need

to face the brutality of winters absent the perspective of compassion as origin.

If only the frostbitten bitterness had not so deadened the nostrils of this world,

then they, too, might inhale and catch the lingering aroma of the wine—

the sangria of grace poured full strength in the blood of the Lamb,

who was slain and yet lives, who Himself was seeded as Life and Love

into the coming springs of the future spent in eternity,

with the summer sun’s currency the ability to shine,

to blaze a bit more of Love within Life.

Amen,

Star-Dust