O faith of mine
O faith of mine, o faith,
I run through you daily.
I run through you with feet of clay --
like running with a kite
over the hardscrabble landscape,
until the wind can catch it
and I can stop, stand my ground,
sufficient tension upon the string
to keep the kite aloft.
O faith of mine, o faith
of sticks and paper, string and wire,
I manage you warily, hands cupped in prayer.
You are my icon, my silent, bright relic.
You bind my life together at the end of this line --
my gathered, disparate, quavering self --
and keep my face turned upward
toward the floating, moon-like, bright-shining
kite above the hardscrabble turf.
O child of God, faith is the evidence of God's mercy --
the inward concern ... turned outward.