Poetry

Promise

Think in terms of distinction, the hands parted/pressed.  When someone laughed, “Winning isn’t everything,” Joy made a pact with Faith.  We knew then it was true.

Now, somehow, you’ve slipped through, into a succession of days that sweat, maximize results.  Each action futile, an infertile belief.

Here is God’s loom.  Pump the pedal, spinning the spindle; fate coils, unfurls.  Behold the pattern, the warp and woof.  Is this religion, or routine?  Day and its tired ally, Night.  Cyclical glow, the pulsing rhythm of sleep.  Steady your foot.  There was rest, then, too.  Remember?  Join hands.

Where is God in the man-made?

Where is God in the man-made?

Man builds church like flowers reach toward the sun.

Upward movements of devotion, the sky

a canvas for truth.  a small computer chip

holds a vast breadth of information. attachment to meaning

and the breaking-open of meaning = creation, preservation, destruction.

man-made does not last; it teaches us to learn & love beyond.