The Listener


Some think our swaddled prayers are birthed within 

the suckling roots of downy feathers

then inked and taken 
someplace we’ve never seen but somehow know 

is there


but I think there’s 

a Listener,

who glistens on each flower’s breath

like dew on newborn petals

The Listener hears our whispers

long before we come to know

He’s really just

right here

 





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