by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
open the door
the room seems so
devoid of anything I know
a cloud of nothing
no one here
a chair and bed
no dust to clear
few books
and You hang on the wall
so all alone
I grateful sprawl
and think of emptiness in You
Your arms enclose
as grass blade dew
a cell
uncluttered
fills with grace
and paintings replaced by Your face
no hearth a chamber of Your heart
warmth bearable of You a part
remove extraneous from mind
and close the door
Beloved to find
