I’ve talked to God More than I’ve talked to people
and found that
he talks back to me
Through strangers telling me their stories
Through this constant presence inside of me that picks me up when I’m on my knees
And through my never ending seasons
Especially when I forget how flowers have the ability to blossom in spring
How do you explain the effect of the mote of dust that I am, in size, that ripples outwards, ever so beautifully?