All the books in the world

And now I see that I am Mary,
waiting at the cavern of my heart
for Jesus to appear.

And all the books in the world
will never make it happen --
no magic from these written words
unlocks this gate in which Self lies entombed
and as I wait,
stare blindly at this page,
no angel will appear,
no false gardeners
to prune the rose that climbs this rugged fence.

It's time for me to rise
from this numb death and firmly grasp the bars,
to throw aside the bonds that separate,
and boldly step into the heart:
Only after I have dared to seek you there
will you accost me on the road
and calling me by name enfold me in your arms.


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