I gather them in the hammock of my honesty, and we swing softly
the hymns of tales told in truth,
would that be alright?
If the messes gather during
day while a sometimes silence
more often heard tattletaling, marking its
insignia with a lead stroke of drawing and I take
while it visits, to pen as well, imaginings of evenings of explanations and understandings, the brood, seated in a circle, while I bring You in? Forlorn without them, I miss them while they're here because the sand drips
faster than ever,
forks are forming,
frost is coming
and I don't want to
find it gone.
The clash of age hangs in the balance, hewn on the
heart of the home.
play relentlessly and I remember in a Sunday the peace we knew before. If you fuse this prayer with grace and new mercies, we can make it. Drive desire in, and give me calloused knees to kneel on, so that I won't
waste this time.
a signal, the chores wax but I wait and still,
find comfort in the story of a woman of desire,
wonder if she had children, if You knew their names and I know you did.
The Sunday Whirl