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 His 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.