Sunday, November 19, 2017

Monk's garden

Monk’s garden                                                                                          

Somehow it’s good to know I haven’t a prayer. 
Like old Job – no say-so in the winding up,

the unwinding of my own affairs.
God is in the details and I’m merely one,

hoping to serve by a studious abstention.
I weed my monk’s garden, encouraged

by the yield of abeyance and abrogation.
The old urgency has deserted my legs and lungs

in mid-stride and the pace, this late
in the game, has slowed considerably;

enough to where it’s more comfortable
to take His hand and follow His lead;

relinquish a bit more the irresistible
compulsion and illusion of plotting my own course.

O child of God, settle in as best you might
under the vast foot of the elephant.

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