Wet Whistle

Where I went to hear

from God

was not necessarily nearer,

the dark wood, just a spoon

stained from stirring coffee,

the stars pulsing as I adjusted my eyes.

Where I went

to hear from God

was closer to the voices in my heart

than head, and although not a fan of horses,

I sensed them beating truth around the bend.

Where I went to hear from God

plumbed the water quick to creek cold,

a drop running wrist to elbow tickling trickle,

the tangent of attention reflected the ocean

as His smiling tears.