The Little that is Left

The Little that is Left

(“At the resurrection…all our ecstasies and intimacies then will be with God.” Matthew 22:30 [The Message])

I must apologize to the inventor of today that
I seem to always greet the day (sun or stinging sleet)
with a bucket full of empty.

I know the impressive canvass I inhabit,
deeper than holography, more dimension than imagined,
pigments to the power of rainbow beads on spider strands,
music so deep it slips between the half and quarter tones,
music that, with a single note, calls tears unbidden,
joy once hidden to fill the heart with ribbons of
folk tunes everyone knows by heart.

I must apologize to the artist who made
me,
that I find nothing to fill this
little that
pain and shock, blame and awe
have left behind.

Bright sun or happy song,
the tears still flood the bucket
at my feet with the little that is
left of me.

Bit by bit, I must admit, I was not made stronger,
but each bite left holes in my flesh until
fissures outnumbered the safe and the sound.

I would go now, if You would take me,
the little that is less than the day You called me,
so I could smile in your presence where no one ever
ever
can bite or hurt or walk away from me
again.