I want to yearn for You.
I do.
I want to plug my ears with my fingers
until You are all I hear,
a whooshing
pounding
pulse.
I want to pick my way up
the jagged rock of You,
certain of every foothold,
knowing that my gasping self
will always find
its next breath
in You.
I want to burst into parties —"SURPRISE!" —
and search the faces for You.
You are treasure.
No grimy coin on the sidewalk,
No quarter flecked with gum,
You are the lottery and I win You every time.
Every time I fix my eyes on You,
and not on others' scurrying feet
or the pulsing lights above.
I want to be the lost sheep
relieved You found me,
and I want to be the 99
never doubting You'd return.
I want to sing of You and keep You to myself
(a jealous hoarder am I)
but You are infinite
and I cannot consume You.
I want to rest and I want to flee —
but You say
yoke: easy
burden: light.
I want to wear out my shoes looking for You
finding You
following You.
And when You bloom through Your word
(again!)
(again!)
(again!)
I will gladly exhaust myself
gathering more and more of You
into my already-bursting arms.
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