Spinning tales
I hadn’t a clue – so You scattered a few about –
sandal prints under my windows;
sacred threads snagged in the hedgerow;
Your blood staining the cross within my chest.
People wonder why I go on about this!
It’s ancient history, they say.
I’m like the angler whose trophy fish is mounted
above the mantle –
I can’t stop spinning tales about it!
Especially when Your wine gets me drunk
and I feel again the excitement of finding You
on the end of my line.
Gone forever -- the despair of empty nets
pulled again and again from the sea of illusion.
My nets are bursting now, my vessel in danger of sinking
under the weight of Your bounty.
Jesus must have smiled when I turned down Your street –
He’d sent me that way years ago looking for You.
O child of God, the Avatar is the fisher of men.
It’s His hook causing that pain in your chest.
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