Your side of the river
These days, often, You back me up
against the river boundary, boxed in ...
so I have to herd my fears -- my sensibilities,
rationalities -- toward your inland still waters
and with numerous ginger steps, artless calculations,
make my way back to the heartland, homeland --
open fields, blue skies, peach orchards
and wild persimmons, the fertile soil
and the furrowed ground, the ever-looming
heartaches and pendulous, inherent hopes
and disappointments. I know that other territory well --
across the river, that dark wild which can feel like truth
and the black depths of the exhausted quarries,
their sharp and treacherous angles.
Your drive me to the river, these days, and leave me there,
knee deep, to find my own way back. Against Your silence,
my interrogations come up naught, the compromises
all on my side, Your orthodoxy and good graces
evermore far-fetched and unreasonable, as I cling
that much more tightly and praise You for my full cup
on this extraordinary path I reluctantly (at times)
traverse on this, your side of the river.
O child of God, conviction is a gift of the Master.
Faith, in the interim, is an offering of the lover.