Out of Mud

Out of Mud

(“You will indeed go out with joy and be peacefully guided; the mountains and the hills will break into singing before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.” Isaiah 55:12)

Spirit move me like gloved trees, leaves reaching upward
toward every shaft and molecule of life. Make the forest wave
with hands and feet, with saplings casting skinny branches
in amplitudes of praise.

Spirit split me like creviced peaks, crests returned eastward
toward every ray and upheaval of change. Make the glaciers pine
with cracks and ice, with alpine lilacs framing the lakes
in lavender worship.

Spirit soak me like muddy hills, paths left by the hooves
of goats and lambs circling coat verdant coat. Make the grassy slope
with earth and dark, with happy comfort a soft blanket
in choruses of song.

Spirit, I am not clothed with foliage.
Spirit, I am full of fractures and caves.
Spirit, I am not soaked, but dry and would
rely upon Your hidden springs

For a new day when silence simply means
I’m drawing a new breath to sing to You again.

I do not mean to be impatient, nor pedestrian.
I only mean I have mostly run out of mud to run in,
sprinklers to jump in,
hills to nap upon and
words that once flowed free and fresh as

An alpine lake with necklaces of lilac.