she just believes in him. there wasn't any other explanation she could offer.

a mother, a lover, a friend.

she couldn't help but see all the glory just ready to burst forth.

wait for it. hold your breath and wait for it.

kingdom.

i am aching for heaven.

my bones cry out

with the rocks and the sea

for the return of glory,

for the fullness of glory.

my bones, twisted around my muscles

bend with weary burdens

from an undone world.

i am aching for heaven

in the tender depths

of my heart i cry out for more.

bridegroom,

take me beyond the hills

and let us sit under the tree

and whisper.

my affections bend and sway

and my eyes dart to see who is coming.

i want your eyes, beloved,

the singleness of your presence,

the sweet songs of your voice.

in the land of the broken,

i ache for heaven.

to sit at your feet, beloved

and hear the thunder clap at

the command of your voice.

to see your words flow out of

your mouth like ribbon

and wrap themselves around weary hearts

and bent over bodies

and watch life come forth.

i ache for life

when nothing is wrong

save the dull sickness that

i have felt since i first

felt your presence -

how much clearer life is when

your spirit is near -

how much sickness we have

that we never knew.

and spirit, come near.

i need more kingdom in my bones.

i am being covered in the holy spirit.

the slightest breeze knocks me over.

get back! get back!

liars, thieves, serpents get back!

don't take me one step too far

from the holy of holies.

i am being bathed in purity - bath water for the soul.

glory be.

submission is no longer a dirty word.

the sunshine makes me want to clean house.

i eat raw cookie dough after work.

beach culture inspires me to be to be dignified,

a lady in a crowd,

a scarf around her head.

submission is no longer a dirty word.

glory be, glory be.

canopied in purple

the streets now

are lined with trees

blooming purple.

(i've never seen purple trees

before i moved to California.)

the streets are canopied

in purple and

i walk underneath them

with a contradictory sense

of euphoria

and nostalgia,

a pleasant and strange mix

of dreaming and

desperately wanting to go back home.

in the dream,

i have a home.

the walls are crooked

the plaster is uneven

there are dents in the wood

from children we've never met.

in my dream, we have children,

three, daughters.

we walk down the street canopied in purple

in search of an ice cream cone because

in january it is still warm enough for

an ice cream cone as long as there is also

chocolate fudge.

because we determined long ago

to teach them to believe in magic.

that home would be first a fantasy,

and then a stability,

and then, only when necessary,

a place where we pay bills.

and even then, we pay them in the park.

and it is magic to eat ice cream on an idle tuesday,

the same idle tuesday we got married on,

when there is nothing else to celebrate.

and our children will play pretend

and live out stories and

we will add props and glitter

but never the cold hard truth

that the love letters we write in the park

to distant princes

are really just men in suits with square faces

called Insurance and Mortgage.

and they will think that their insurance is our arms

and our mortgage is our bed.