My worn out boots

My worn out boots                                                                                   

My worn out boots are on His porch

but my back is to His door.

I’ve knocked randomly, rang the bell.

Without an answer I’ve turned again

toward where I came from

down the shady stone walk

through the trim, thick grass

that leads back to the busy street.

Everything passing out there seems

(momentarily) important – each phase,

crisis, new adventure, each fleeting attachment.

Everything but God at every moment

seems alive and urgent.  Everything

but this quiet house set back from the road;

everything but getting a foot inside that door.

My worn out boots are on His welcome mat.

I’m not going anywhere – a blessing

and a curse – as I turn again briefly

to ring and knock, shout and study how
at last I might slip inside.

O child of God, to enter His house

turn forever your back upon the world.