The syllables of the desert fathers

crossed my lips and changed me.
Thought turned slowly like a bead 
between fingers, worn down, not 
into clarity, but habit.
 
Now I try to follow them,
but every path I take bends
back to you. I return to you
as if repetition might make it prayer, 
as if the name could rinse itself clear.
 
I’ve been thinking how to tell you—
not faith, not quite hunger,
but something between, something 
that stays even when I mean
to empty myself. 
 
Still, my thoughts 
grow wings—not to escape,
not to ascend, but simply to rise
and settle again, like small birds
over a wide, quiet desert.