Bound

My sight is dimly focused
in the twilight of another day
that trickles meekly
and then drifts off to the edge
of nothing

to clang like a rope
on a flagpole
in the wind.

I am bound to this place
and the sadness of enduring rain.

I pray that the warmth of God's supple breath
will warm these cold and aching hands.

Why Not Draw a Map?

Why not draw a map,
a map with a volume of missteps
and mistakes sketched
along each knuckle,

a map where quest is part of the din,
shins scraped and bloody,
insects crawling and raising welts,

and the mind traipses bravely
whacking at the underbrush of doubt
with the cold blade of a machete?

"You are here," says this map.

No need to panic.
The heart is standing close,
holding your hand,

leading the way
past the familiar scene
and on to the next breath
taking vista.

How Fear Knows

You think you must hurt
to build a lattice between today
and the exhale of the past.

The statute of provocation
is trapped in your every breath
and will not be ferreted out
of those dark and weary places.

The corridor to the heart
is cluttered and so fractured
and fragile and waiting
to repeat the impossible
claim on all you are worth.

Speak the Word

In the reckoning of my voice with learning to sing,
I stumble near the precipice of truth.

Though I don't fall into the churning
of waters that boil and could easily take me under,
I am changed in these solitary days.

My walking has been so heavy.
The yoke has been formed to my strong shoulders
and a back that is not afraid of working.

And yet, if I could open my mouth
and let the notes of joy that wait in the cave of my throat
fly free of this silence with music so sweet,

the Divine would speak the word
with quiet prayer
and the flowing water
would be the rush
of abundant thanksgiving.