03 Nov The Calling
The Calling
I pull songs from my apron pockets
They come from every place I’ve ever been
From porches, gardens, mailboxes– I give them to the wind
The bathing dishes, the thirsty flowers, I unload tune after tune–
Why did God give me all of these songs
When I cannot give them to you?
I have dabs of color on my paintbrushes ready
Purple-bellied clouds scooting steady down an avenue of sky
Hog’s bristle arching with laden sigh
The shivering blue underbrush, the cardamom cry
Of dogwood slick in the shadows
I trace the starlight with my eyes
And paint out my hunger for blue,
Why did God give me all of these colors
When I cannot give them to you?
What is a life given to longing?
It is no color but a hue.
I sharpen my practice for a Calling
But I am unsure what I am being called to
What is calling for me, my sweet absent son,
As I call and call for you?
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