The Lion's Falling Words

There is a Lion that holds me. His mane is thick, and I've had to grip it so tightly sometimes. His hair is like water in my fingers, pouring down over the tops of his feet and manteling his bulging shoulders. His hair is alive, entertwining and lacing itself around the majestic features of his face. I look at him, and he makes me want to cry with a yearning. He doesn't have to say anything, and his Spirit moves within me. And yet, when his large mouth opens, and he utters a sound--a whisper that sounds like a gigantic ROAR against my heart--his Spirit dances from my fingers to my toes, and I weep at the power of it all. He is breathless to look at when he is still, and he is even more heart-breaking when he speaks.

I want to learn from him today. I might sit at his feet, and touch his giant paws. I run my fingers in the creases of his toes, and tickle them--but, do I dare? He smiles at me anyway, and licks my ear. I look at him, and I ask him to teach me something. He invites me to hear him speak, but I tell him that sometimes I am just too busy.

"Too busy for me?"

"Yes."
I lean into him. I feel guilty, but my guilt trickles away from our hill of safety, and he licks at my hands. My hands want to hold his words as they fall out of his mouth, and I eagerly grab at them as he teaches and sings to me. They are good. They are good things, and I wonder sometimes why it's so hard to sit down and listen to him when he captivates me the way he does.

Psalm 1:2