A god of sorts, and my muse, how you made me
Created me and made me reach
Let me cry, watched me love
Let me down, helped me up
Some universe, somewhere is missing what dust
What if an angel is all that you were made to be
A guardian with no human arms in the ever of time to guard you
A servant among an army of servants, hosting the faint and heartsick
A consecrated one, bringing stranded souls back together
What if God’s breath is the all you were made to be
Why did you act like water and feel like hands
And I, born thirsty with never a progenitor to touch me
Why did I, the reluctant saint, concede nonetheless to True North’s tug
And you, the only lesser god ever worth worshipping
I praise you, God, and with warmed feet, proceed….
My lean-to, you are, so that I may Stand.
You make me in constant good company.
I come close to your heart and for me it beats in The Rhythm that eases the doubt that vies for room in mine and what becomes clear but God, who is not at all the tiny god we create to suit our short-sighted purposes and to please our mind’s eye, but instead Who emerges is God who created my heart and your heart, matched them together for glory and gave us a purpose eternal and we enjoy this.
Pancakes on a Sunday morning were never supposed to be so loud.
The only sounds I’d predicted were newspapers unfolding, rustling pages after an appropriate period of time.
Harp-laced sunshine musically poured from the orange juice pitcher to your glass, my son.
Cozy, fluffy, buttermilk breaths, exhaling at long last, I wanted for us.
But the week had gotten the better of me.
Instead you heard man’s demands and the echoes of entitled children.
Screeching chairs against cold floor tiles and anxiety-producing forced air overhead.
Waste and plastic and a bit of excess.
But there was the blessed color, wasn’t there?
Tell me you noticed, beautiful.
The smiles of the Sunday workers, employed by capitalism, but still genuine and holding their own.
The crowd beside us in Sunday best, good news and gospel aglow.
Brothers and sisters we are.
Take that from the morn, my child.
This lovely, winding, seasonal scene of our lives.
And the time we were given and allowed ourselves.
One would ask, “Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
Driving down gridded streets that sometimes wound East, then South.
Thinking of shutters painted contrasting colors, or perhaps altogether removed.
One imagines children’s summertime voices.
Carefree and popsicle glee, front sidewalks their territory.
As it should be.
One seems perfect there.
Small and yellow, with miles and miles of welcome.
Surely big enough for whatever weather.