The Calling

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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