Perhaps it was the way the word 'soul'
echoed and 'heart' clapped back to my ear
that made me picture You there--an unearthed
giant white playground bound sewer pipe I would hide in,
that there was a place deep within me where sounds like this
happen--because of the shape and form
of my inner little-woman heart and soul,
five-year-old thunder rolling, cracking, and ceasing.
Before I knew anything of phonetics, semantics,
I understood You through the sound of 'soul,'
through the sound of echo--that's all I understood,
that You would sit with me there, calm the storm.
That You would send me forth from 'soul' to 'city street'?
from my sabbatical sewer pipe to hearing rumbles of hunger,
the groan of hidden agony? I couldn't dream of,
for instance, a daily commute from introverted retreat
to all types of hunger pains and back only to sleep. But neither
did I dream of that same sewer pipe now echoing
the crash of living waterfalls and serene whisper
of heavy April rain--right here in my sewer-pipe hiding place.
of heavy April rain--right here in my sewer-pipe hiding place.
All I understood was the echo of 'soul,'
that You would sit with me there.
