O faith of mine

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 effortlessly floating.
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.