Worry for Weeks

 

Worry for Weeks

(“But I do have something against you! And it is this: You don’t have as much love as you used to.” Revelation 2:4)

An entire life can be squeezed into a moment,
a solitary word from a frozen sky can
crush the light that rained like spectral colors
across the soul.
An entire life can be freed in a moment,
a singular look from a faithful friend can
spark the dark that shamed like cavernous shade
and heal the soul.

But the fog descended overnight with trumpets of thunder,
the skies creased as supper was set on a thousand tables,
and the river sang the same ballad it had learned long ago.

I worry for weeks over broken things,
I worry week after week over things
I have broken.

Whatever is broken, sit at my table,
Whatever you have shattered, leave it for another time.

I cannot sleep for days over cancelled lives,
I cannot sleep night after night over lives
I have cancelled.

            Whatever you deleted, break this bread with me,
            Whoever you abandoned, there is a new subscription.

I cannot sing for months over hidden sins,
I cannot sing month after month over sins
I have not revealed.

            Whatever you transgressed, drink new wine with me,
            Whatever you withheld, there is no evidence.

And the fog soon lifted as the day closed with orange and pink couture,
the skies danced and dessert was served on a single table for a thousand,
and the river whistled the same ditty it had saved up for this very day.

A Venue you Habited

A Venue you Habited 

(“The Father loves the Son and has placed all things in His hands.” John 3:35)

Have you ever returned to a chosen space, a venue you habited like the moon
in its cycles? Have you glanced upon the stone where once you sat
to abbreviate the world’s long pages? Your eye scanned the horizon;

The west was endless from the butte’s vantage; a river running and rising
as June supplied its capacity from the peaks well past August.

The east was a yellow hillside wedge with jonquil and bluebell punctuation.
Sometimes the children were occupied with hikes and journeys while your
heart,
aligned with the routine,
found comfort in the pattern as all life finds in the seasons.

So, for 20 years you visited, weeks divided by two;
for 20 years you sat and painted your methods;
for 20 years you kept a liturgy of hours, your prayer rope
a comfort when thoughts twirled like gutters and words
echoed against the abyss.

Then came the pain. Unruly, you continued your routine. 
But the pain allowed less contemplation as it captured your
best assets and imprisoned them well beyond the reach of your
shortened range.

The pain stayed. Five years in the experts ran out of tricks,
the rabbits had escaped, the wand was broken, and the magician’s cape
was a threadbare anachronism while you grabbed the theater rails
to exit the building when your last hope when up in flames.

The stone still sits atop the butte, the river still swells in 
summer’s comma before the fall. But you

Are adrift, the doldrums have stopped every measure of time.
You wonder what power, now eight years unpinned from
the calendar’s rhythm, might stir the waters again,
send you to the one unchanging habit that defined

Your delineation from every other footprint maker.

A Father, you hoped to accelerate your best to leave your
children arcs and panoramas before you left to rest.