Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Father in the Mirror

I look in the mirror
at the tussled white hair
and lined face

at the body bend a bit at the shoulders
as if carrying the weight
of the pain that
rules each day
and dominates each night

through the fog
I hear his voice
his deep laughter
and see that behind his tri-focals
often lost
the blue eyes still twinkle

a little life
and mischief rest there still

and yet the great weariness
covers his being like
a shroud

and each day begins with a ritual
of moving up from a place
not of rest
but of stagnation

a ritual
built out of a resolve to make it through

and so my
father looks at me
through the foggy glass

he is here
in so many ways
he is

Lord this day
help me put one foot in front of the other
and break through the fog
and engage
with those who come my way

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