when she reads
(which she does well
and often) it’s like a dream
or vision reaching through
from some other plane
of existence to view
how we might possibly
see ourselves but with
the lens of spirit, where
all things are still possible
and those limitations
(only a negation)
melt under the gaze
of purest love.
where the stories we tell
ourselves are less important than
what we really are, in truth,
inspiritus (if only we
clearly knew).
