Whose isolation is lonelier than undisturbed snow.
Whose loss can be deeper than a forgotten memory of loss.
Whose church is a silence where a bowed head speaks to God.
Whose fists bang against walls like words on deaf ears.
Whose peace is hearing raindrops fall on a thin tin roof.
Whose days flood into nights, floods his dreams when he sleeps.
Whose joy is duality; a flying dove and its shadow flying below.
Whose shame is being at the center of Self-Portrait at 32.
Whose confidence is a stone wall, torn down and built anew.
Whose name is uncommon, like a house cat trying to bark.
Whose God is silent (though the altar’s candles may flicker).
Whose mind settles on: “Nearest, count us together.”
Whose days are occasionally stained glass, a chorus of light.