Won’t someone wrap their arms around me?
Paint my dreams with wind and warmth?
Isn’t holding, being held, what all arms are fashioned for?
Still, embracing looks a lot like grace,
so, I’ll fling wide my heart,
and wrap my arms around you first,
whose eyes are moon and stars.
But I am poor and needy, make haste to me, oh God. You are my help and my deliverer, oh Lord do not delay. — psalm 70:5
It is hard to write a poem everyday.
It is hard to know that poetry abides
in every living color and smell and soul
encountered, and to be unable, most days,
to write anything down. Surely, you think,
there is some bright thing somewhere,
whose glimmer I could capture. If only
I could dig deeper, remember better.
but your fists are full of the last dirt,
and you’re tired. Still, the dirt smells
ancient and new and alive. Even the last
that there is, yields to life. I’m holding to the place
he says that his grace inclines to meet me.