Home Again Soul

As a child
I thought my soul
Was an organ
That sat
In my breastless chest.

Pure,
As white as a cloud,
A cotton ball,
A baby blanket,
Downy soft,

A place where
The Holy Spirit dove
Could rest.

The bad news, of course,
Was sin,
Which stained the soul-
Its pristine formlessness
Soiled by iniquity.

Confession
Washed it clean again
While penance hung it out to dry.

Silly, childish misconception
And yet,

These days,
I think of soul again.
I’ve learned to cherish
That pure white space-
Hot house
For tender seedlings of the self,
Resting place once more
For the Holy Spirit.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith