Sifting
Confining, as the night does cry
and spirit sifts unto the sky
to his abode in wandering, as why
I seek his space to fill with my
new wandering, but of course, comply
this filling destiny, sift's try!
Where can my spirit sift, but only mound
without a claim to so abound
I sift, but to a memory of one whose care is found
in his fond grace, or sift unto another place.
my thought but bound, to some small hope's impound.
Then sifting not, I so resound with worry
that some choosing's hound does anchor
while my spirit downed does see thee not around
and to my spirit, memory and sound
do sift away my Holy bound to thee ~
I sift the shadows, but to see
thy love's beginning, not empty ~
. . . sifting, for the sight of thee!
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