Creation waits for the sons

and daughters of God
to be who they were created
to be. An unfamiliar Spirit
has made it’s way inside;
it calls this place home now,
nestles in forgotten corners,
makes sugar floss from 
cobwebs and shatters
the sticky glass. It tells me
there is so much love to be had:
nights among our ancients
in Rome, blood and bread
to break in remembrance—
but who sits on the throne
of your heart? If you are
the sunlight, who keeps
the icarian summers
from self-exhumation,
blessing this return to old masters?