Under their trilling
The path of knowledge has
petered out
into a thick pine wood
ripe with scent and birdsong.
Its remainder does not
lie undiscovered up ahead.
It simply goes no
farther.
There’s no key to God’s
door
on my considerable chain
–
a weight I’ve accumulated
for years.
There’s no lock on God’s
door;
most likely there’s no
door at all out this far.
What I should do now is
toss these keys,
scatter the last of my
bread crumbs
for the gathered,
guileless birds
and await my Beloved
under their trilling –
hand outstretched but no
longer for begging,
merely waiting, do or
die, for Him
to take my hand and lead
me home.
O child of God, leave it
– your salvation
has always been entirely
up to Him.
(Drawing by Rich Panico)
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