On the Tip by Susan L.

  There's another poem hanging just outside my conscious mind. I can taste it. It has been there for a while now. I can feel it washing against my soul. Ethereal whispers of consonants and vowels have yet to gather into something that makes sense. Perhaps it's simply a matter of being still, of opening the heart's door. Perhaps it's simply a matter of tuning out the world for those precious moments when I place my pen at the feet of Jesus.
  I went for a walk in the woods with a friend yesterday. A strong breeze rustled the leaves and brushed past. It gave me goose bumps, being so cool against my skin. I stood there, eyes closed for a few moments, utterly enthralled. That's what it feels like, this waiting, this labouring process of creation. It is standing there, eyes closed as the tender caress of something Better, something Bigger than myself guides my soul into the birthplace of something new.
  The music is right there along side the poem. I can taste it. I can feel it washing against my soul: a song unwritten more beautiful than anything yet. Notes that paint poetry, that bare the heart, that touch the tender places where the wounds run deepest. Yet, knowing all along that the release will bring healing.
  Be with me, my Lord. Help me let go.
  Oh, my soul, you have said to the Lord, You are my Lord, my goodness is nothing apart from You. Ps 16:2