The poets and singers of this world
spread their praise of our Beloved like butter
there is always more butter
and there is always more bread…
and people all pray
and invoke his names
and declaim his glorious attributes…
But you can take all this praise,
these songs and chants,
fit them into a thimble somewhere,
out of sight,
and think about this:
None of them compare
with the mere thought of him
sitting in a chair next to me.
You can see, finally, how cloth looks
when it’s in a garment that clothes him.
His smile, indescribably, encompasses all things,
and everything beyond that.
His eyes are like no others,
and if his love did not support you,
you would just melt right into his eyes.
He is more beautiful than any woman
or any man,
and his hair is more beautiful than sunrise on the ocean
or the full screen of stars around midnight.
His comfort, as he gestures,
is something so complete,
it is like watching the universe settle into
place at the dawn of creation.
Upon his embrace,
you can smell his skin:
and it is more real,
than anything you have every imagined.
You hear the sound of him drawing breath,
what is the sound
of a poem,
or a prayer,
or a song,
compared to that?