My box of sand

My box of sand
 
I am laboring to unearth the great Mystery
in a sandbox with my trowel and pail,
 
sculpting explanatory castles   
that will not survive the first hard rain.
 
My colleagues and I have our pointed discussions –
sort of like Mel and Ella trading scat rifts.
 
What matters (I have timidly surmised)
is acceptance, devotion, faith and permission,
 
none of which originates with the worshipper.
I go easy on myself.  I’m burdened in a peculiar way.
 
I survey this miraculous realm (of which
I am also made) and what should inspire awe
 
doesn’t – because I am an impenetrable dullard,
built that way per God’s great Whim,
 
thus my search for Truth never leaves
the six-by-six confines of my box of sand.
 
O child, you are an illusory fragment of the One God,
perfectly outfitted with your human imperfections.