My heart is as a room swept clean,
To honour an invited guest,
And she I’ve yet to meet is looking,
Looking for a place to rest.
She has courage, wit and beauty,
A gentle grace, a healing fire;
Yet the woman I know is weary,
Weary and has wandered far.
My room is friendly, warm, but bare:
An old oak door stands open wide,
And though unknown she feels it’s home,
And fearless, singing, slips inside.
O heart, o hurt and hungry heart,
Though empty you are filled with light.
Quite still she sits illuming there:
Her skin is dark, her body bright.
The planet of my belly tilts,
Falling, falling toward the sun:
Dare I embrace desire again?
Or should I turn my back and run?
by “Jacob Bauthumley”