for Carol, showing me how


I stop wrestling with the one that has me by the back of the neck
open my throat to God’s knife.
Hear myself calling out to a God I don’t know
is there.
Sometimes have to be lifted up on my own lap for comforting.
Sometimes knock on the door and there is no answer.
Sometimes hear knocking, lay my face against the cool of that door
choosing not to open.

Look out my window
see the row of trees planted years ago to separate ours
from a neighboring field.
Seven billion leaves, seven billion faces
every one of them whispering something I can’t understand.

Take hold of my own right hand, feel the skeleton bone
that was broken in a fall.

When I touch what is broken in myself, a door opens
without effort.
A kind of joy comes in with the light from the neighbor’s field
that is not the joy of heaven on earth
but a homely kind that only humans can know.

How God gets down on his knees to become one of us.
Gets down on his knees not to ask for our forgiveness
but to put his ear to the ground
listen more intently to what the leaves are saying
trying to understand what he is
what he has done.



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