Big Fuss

Are you a whisper?
Are you a whimper
of sweet relief
released
back
to the white light
of
sacrificial dreams?

Am I a cloth to cover?
Am I a map
of your hair
that falls
gently
to the shoulder of God?

Is this a blue sun melting?
Is this the final brush
of your finger,
sharpened,
striking up
a flood?