Song of the Soul

Something was lost in the cracks

(my trust in truth) --

and I must pull up the floorboards 

in search of it,

for the music calls . . . . .

Crushed underfoot,

I crawl,

hands patting the ground for rocks and

splinters --

but if knees will get me there,

I'll go,

for the music calls . . . . . 

Head throbbing,

heart sobbing,

I clutch pieces of reality shattered --

with these I will build,

for the music calls . . . . . 

Memory sleeping,

only fragments awake --

they keep watch through the dream-infested night,

awaiting first birdsong,

for the music calls . . . . .

Raw-kneed, I shiver,

my hands, how they quiver . . . . .  

But -- listen! 

The music calls.

Truth's Fire

"No words for you,"

reports the wind. 

Thank you," nod I,

my trust undimmed.

"What keeps you steady?"

wind asks anxiously.

"A light burns afar," say I,

for the words that will be."

Locks Declined

Trust is not mere feeling,

passive plunging down a hill.

Trust is a decision of

"I want to and I will."

Trust is not a guarantee

the other will come through.

Trust is love enough to say,

"I choose to believe in you."
The lock serves well in hostile zones,
accompanied by key,
but trust posts love as sentry,
preferring to be free. 

Surrender

Answers that elude me --

go ahead, fly away!

Sad and disgusted,

I'm too weary to play.

What God wishes me to see,

He will reveal.

I've no more patience

to withstand the unreal.

Threadbare

Bent low,

I feel my failures
mightily,

and their weight pulls me

down,

taunting me,

daring me

to get up --

get up!

Surprise --

I intend to 

rise

with strength spent long ago

and skills in which I am poor.

Threadbare,

I must go forth.

He cloaks the birds

in splendor -- 

surely He will fill these

empty hands

with something,

something I have not yet imagined,
animating mind and heart
to learn, to do --
and the strength will be all His.

I will go forth.

Quiet Demise

Into pieces trust crumbled,

silence enshrouding
the breakage,
that tender point at which
trust,
crestfallen,
buckled and snapped,
showering splinters into the 
depths
of a spirit
already shattered.

Perhaps

Hope . . . 

a sudden flicker of light,

blanket of calm down deep,

mystery whispering to the soul,

"Perhaps all is not lost, after all.

Take my hand."

Lucid

Weighty words spoken
(ache physical in my heart) . . .
How familiar their sense
I could not express.

I took my full heart
outside
late that night.

The skies were Lenten,

clean black awash with moon,
breath of Spring whispered low,
light and grey shadows
hinting "hope."

Childhood watchful,

alert to this new peace,
left Memory to join me,
trusting.