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.