These aren’t just poems – they’re baby steps (let us pray)
upon the bedimmed terrain, for poet as well as those,
perhaps, who read them and care to share my path
for a while – the gathered notes; the incoming mail.
Correct me if I’m wrong, if you’ve jumped ahead
of the plodding gait. I expect no answer from these
(not at all) endless, internal, expedient musings,
longing deeper and richer each step for the clarity
and strength to run as an adult headlong
and heedless into the waiting arms of my Beloved.
O child of God, employ the illusion of movement
until a quenching comes in the everlasting stillness.
