There is a plumb line. And it doesn’t swing right or left. Steady and straight, it hangs in the middle, making right angles to the earth, to us. It aligns with gravity, the gravity of what is coming.
What’s to be done with a house that isn’t square? A house that is divided within itself, aligned to the acute and the obtuse. Is it to be torn down, to begin again? What’s to say we’d get it right this time? Perhaps it’s best to wait, to watch and pray, to know this world, this house, is not our home.
You once said something about many rooms in your father’s house and that you’d be preparing a place for us, a place to dwell as family. You are the master builder. Unless you build the house, we labor in vain. You are unapologetically right and incomprehensibly kind, regardless of our ability to be still long enough to perceive the truth of your string and bob. You justify that which is crooked if we will but agree.
We are all the shades,
the varied shades of flesh,
Alternating in their giving and taking
of screaming blame, shoulder-bending shame,
of the cups of rage and suffering…
Are we looking to the end?
Do we know the poison we are drinking?
Do we acknowledge the toxins we are excreting?
We destroy the very love we are seeking.
Like an old married couple
locked in a cycle of rejection and cold revenge,
we’ve lost the art of seeing one another
with the kind eyes of lover and of friend.
Blindly, we clutch denial and lean on our demands.
When will we simply go gentle and reach out our hands?
Do what you will with me.
Plow or plant
or let me lie fallow;
it is not for me to say.
I am only to yeild
to your wise farmer hands.
The husbandry of my heart
is your concern and you
a hale and hearty harvest
if I will but let you have your way.
Now you bend and
tenderly scoop up a bit of the
wounded and wild earth that I am.