Carry Me

Carry Me

(“Blessed be the Lord—day after day he carries us along.” Psalm 68:19 [The Message]) 

Spared the paper illusions, I moved on with the day.
The sky fell upon us like a dust devil bringing the
clouds’ perfume to inches from our reach. Though it
had never happened this way
since time began,
we were not frightened. We knew the universe is chunkier
than thin papyrus or tomato soup.
On the average every day opens like an unwrapped gift
left inside the living room window.
But the box is heavier than I’m willing to admit.
The corners are taped so carefully it takes until
well in the afternoon to
open it. By that time, I’ve used up my portion and
retire to wonder why some promises have a half-life
of hello and goodbye. Lately I simply wander
the same path up the hill toward the woods and
back home to the empty doorway. This is not a
complaint.
Just the words of uninvited pain and wordless days.

So

Carry me.

By the way,
I don’t blame anyone. I’ve been paper-thin in
my day too. I’ve lost my favorite hat to the desert wind.
I’ve sighed too many names. I’ve left too many guessing
what my words would be. And so I hear you say

Carry me.

I’ve always taken friendships too seriously. And
duties have frightened me away from extended afternoons
in simple laziness. We should have shared more beers.
Watched more baseball. Laughed at how silly all our
doctrine became
once people decided they were experts
about God.

We all just need a day or two to be
carried away.

I Would be Your Shade Tree

I Would be Your Shade Tree

(“Let my soul be at rest again, for the Lord has been good to me.” Psalm 116:7)

You won’t chastise me for my complaint, will you?
Do I come across as needy?
Sometimes I am. I’ve also been accused of impiety.
The steel fingers have poked my mind
for nearly a decade and a half,
I do not mind my occasional breakdowns.
I would attend your crying fit; I’ve seen the playgrounds
where skinned knees and pointed fingers meet.

I would take you to the river,
I would become your constant shade tree,
I would be the silence in your agony,
I would bring you wine mixed with my own tears,
a long pour sparing nothing.
I would bring you my eyes which have seen the same
pain and brittle dehydrating while others play flag
football
in the sun.

You won’t run away from me for my sadness, will you?
Do I come across as morose?
Often I am. I’ve been accused of undiagnosed illnesses
unmindful of the offered cures.
Purely because I know how the light filters through
pulled curtains
when the late summer sun taunts a day’s immobility,
I wait in the darkness with you, sit in the sadness
and view your soul as more lovely than my own.

I would sing the song we wrote,
I would relive the times we walked on slippery hills
just after the first rain.
I would bring the bread you baked while you pieced
together the insanity of darkness again.
I would bring you my hands which have held other
hands
just as curled as your own.
I would let my pain be the beginning of two souls
finding rest simply from
being seen.