getting there

We're tilting towards you, we're bending back as a stem leans towards the sun through a nearby window- it cannot hide, or draw the shades nor can we (or even wish to) hide. We're coming out, we're leaving darkness with palms and heels dragging behind us, and faces stretching forward and upward; we Gleam. The rest of our bodies follow with timid motions tripping over each step and stopping to dwell in the hurt- the biting pain of raw knees against rocky earth over and over again until the wounds are familiar and we feel them all the time. But you- you are the river, the end. where our Friend stands inviting us to wade, ready to share with us the healing you have invented, beneath the cool cover of water. we fall in as broken pieces and emerge all solid and white, like dust turned to hard wet clay- You can hold us now, we can feel you now. once scattered, now collected. once exhiled, now welcomed.

the forgetful and the forgotten

A common man's life, more notable than mine-
with no title to distinguish it otherwise,
I’m an empty page, with so much to say
But no money to employ the scribe

Yet you who sees and feels all things-
each square of ground on which I step
Surely knows the words I’d choose
Or even better yet-
The ones I at this hurried pace
Most likely would forget

The wonderful author,
The celebrated pen,
The forgotten creator
Of all that we spend
on books we don’t read
And stories that end-
Apart from the one within us.