Petals unfold from your tongue, you speak crimson velvet freshness into being. An opening bud of careful precision, a floral life floating on your breath, bees, and boundary.
You expand a mystery of molecules, at your word atomic spice springs into breeze; you dizzy hummingbirds, intoxicate butterflies. Shining beams play, shimmer, light your Shulamite, invite a tango.
You draw. Come, find my notes poured out in the garden, etched among lemons and limes. See, the lost apricot awakens! Sweet shoots adorn black crumbling branches. On every cell I inscribe: what was dead is alive.
You wait for me to discover your love among the leaves and thorns, (will I perceive it?) your hidden blossom of wonder, a shy heart-shaped valentine of third heaven, a sachet for this moment, a marked downbeat
of song, a bodily inhale of my eyes and skin and hair and breath. Filled with rising melody, your unspoken lyrics whispered on wind, I join your written roses in swaying dance, in blood-red bloom of belonging.
One way to approach the epistle text for this week is to talk about the spiritual discipline of saying yes and saying no, an idea I was first introduced to by M. Shawn Copeland. (I find The Message translation of this passage helpful here.) God created us with the freedom to say yes and say no. But as Paul reminds us, we don’t always know how to use this freedom very well.