I am so open to you this morning

I am so open to you this morning,

As raindrops patter and timidly tap on my window pane,

Asking gently to come in and lie or maybe just stare,

So you, my lovely one, knock at my gates,

Requesting an audience much lower, much sadder

Than that of great popes.

And I cry, I cry: for fear? for loss?

For the All-Knowing Unknowns?

I know not why,

Only that I am so open to you this morning.

Please--when you enter--be gentle, my love,

For my my heart is worn

Not on my sleeve, but... out.

It is tired and yearns for nothing more

Than but to be with you, even for the briefest of moments.

Yet it is so frightened of what you might say,

Or perhaps I am, and what am I other than a heart

With a few bones, some flesh, and firing synapses?

Good Lord, why am I at such fear in the face of

That Which I claim, above all else being,

To seek, to cherish and behold... to love?

Answer me! Answer me, O you wretch,

For I cannot much bear this for much longer.

And yet still here do I remain,

Waiting in the calm silence of a great doctor

And low voices

Rumbling through the walls in preparation.

I am so open to you this morning.

I am so open.