Winter drops
the late afternoon sun
into my bedroom window
just after three o’clock.
He hovers there—
burning the edges of my
closed curtains
like an eclipse I can touch.
He says,
you have to invite me in,
which I find charming.
My palms hover over the fabric,
pin-holed from cats,
reminding me of that myth where
birds band together and
the hummingbird punches stars
into the black blanket that
God threw over the world—
as if Grace is more taken than given,
more opened, than received.
I’ll let you know what I find out.
I open my curtains—
I open my chest—
I open my God—
and dive
when he slides over the mountain.
Sobriety Poet 