Down : Face

My Father, my question,
who drives the snow sideways,
and life, in motion or in pause.
My friends, my temple,
this altar is life itself.
Opposite of depths, astride
wingtips, cautiously covering
the temptation to control.
Extol my God, my heart, my soul,
in wisdom of intention.
With robes, with order, with offerings,
in worship all-encompassing,
purposefully lead, deliberately design
time, if only Your desires mine.
Where my prophet, my unveiler,
with eyes of stone, unenticed
by the promise of spice, unbought
and unaffected by my aim,
ascertain the plain call,
the simple plan, henceforth
I follow and follow fain,
prone and extending fingertips
under wingtips gold in flame.
Seeking never leaving, my heart
in a constant display,
stretched with face near
to the silvery door,
the carpeted floor, to Your ear.
Oh, Name above names,
I dare not call You to insist
on audience for my claims.
No, instead, in Spirit, silence me.
In truth, let me hear You
speak to us, speak through us,
amen.