POETRY
“Matins,” read by Lee Kiblinger.
Matins
I’m not always there, but this morning when I closed the door and knelt cross-legged on the carpet beneath our bedroom window, awaiting the small patch of light that breaks on the pine, hoping to find in the darkness some flicker inside, I shut my eyes and pled for Him to near, to suspend the silence parading my ear ... until the door cracked open, and you tiptoed shy behind, stirring the stillness when you passed by, and a breeze stirred and brushed the back of my neck, embodying all that I begged ... so with long breath I bowed my chest and head, tucking myself into the cleft of our bed — for I could not see your face, but knew you well in the soft place on which we tread, where I felt your hand with His cover mine, where we are found, hand under hand under Hand ... so I bent low and lay hushed on that holy ground.
Lee Kiblinger is a Texan who loves to travel with her husband, laugh with three adulting children, and enjoy words with Rabbit Room poets. Her work can be found in The Windhover, Solum Journal, Heart of Flesh, Ekstasis, Clayjar Review, and others. Discover more of her poetry at www.ripplesoflaughter.com.
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