Be•ing

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?