The Shortest Sentence

The Shortest Sentence

(“I will boast in the Lord; let the oppressed hear and rejoice.” Psalm 34:2)

There are days meant for reflection when we wait
to meet you at the station. The ground is long between us,
the air is stretched thin. The longing for absolution,
the craving of love with the proper inflection.
There are days when the rain brings pain,
the atmosphere has shifted again and the pressure
pushes the blood around in my brain. I have no one
to blame but the creator of it all.
But then I see you, eyes that have seen deeper within
my soul
than anyone I know. You make me feel the way I’ve always longed
to feel, the way I think we all deserve to feel.
And you do it all with your own pain front and center,
you do it all as sweet as summer grass after the rain.
I’ve confessed more to you than anyone I know.
I’ve admitted my prayers seem useless.

We might sit on upholstered armchairs in a room
in the bookstore where all the children’s books are
shelved. We might choose a dozen and leaf through them.
We might discover some things that
are just meant to be, like the touch of a hand,
hopes intertwined that say; I share the love so
the pain will not win. I share the affection that
keeps the anxiety at bay. And we would smile that night
at the secrets we know, the secrets we never share with
anyone else.

The only time we ever lie is when we say, “I’m fine”
when asked. I’ll tell you the truth next time if you will too.
Sometimes we say it with rounded sounds to make us believe
there isn’t much wrong. But the pain is the same, whether
we tell it or not.

We would know, sitting there among the stacks,
the inflection really said, “I need you” (we fear to
admit it.) We would see the truth in each other’s eyes.
Softly I would stand and give the simplest wink to the shortest
sentence of sadness: “I’m fine.”

The Shortest Sentences

The Shortest Sentences

(”He took the seven loaves of bread and the fish and gave thanks to God. Then he divided the food and gave it to his followers, and they gave it to the people.” Matthew 15:36)

And the plains rolled slowly from the feet of the hills,
westward and looking, gazing and turning the questions upon themselves
over and over again. The crowd filled the grass,
every blade bent or broken. There is hunger here. There is thirst
and desire. There is aging hope, and fame sinking down the drains
of earlier expectations. The antique prophets spoke,
the burnished teachers with sparkling swag turned the thunder
to cuss and spit and anger. The wrath of God, in their hands,
was just the politics of borders.

But new and older, without a place to lay his head,
another spoke with patina. Our hunger deepened, our thirst
a dry and violent hole cracked well past autumn. Yet, the

shortest sentence fills us like banquets.

The slightest promise

Coaxes rain from the empty skies,
and empties our eyes of a life-full of precipitation.

We crossed the borders and He knew us,
we marched with refugees on the sands of worn leather,
arriving later than we had planned,
the party must have ended,
the budget overspent,
with only the roadies left behind packing up the
double-bass and banjos.  We doubled our pace

And discovered

There is not late, no ever, there is not there, nor never,
only fullness and every hungry for more.