I have been reading lately Foster's book on Prayer, and I find that the prayers I tend to avoid are those that look inward. I like every other room in the house, except my closet space. Why is that? And when I do peer inward, sometimes it is so messy that all I want to do is throw everything into an incinerator. Other times it is easy to justify my room. But what if God speaks through you, to you? What if the most significant patterns of God's love are woven into the fabric of your own life? God wastes nothing.
----
Couch
I sank in cushions
shushed in light incandescent
from three lamps on the periphery
of this couched enclosure.
I did not feel lazy or drowned
in drowse that mid-afternoon showers
incant when winter descends
hushing the suburbs
dousing the hubbub.
There was, instead, a liveliness,
an ecstatic cling of peace
cradling me in its sling.
While I was fitted hobbit-snug
with book and coffee mug
I was unfocused of them
as though someone had sown
a question and my response
had just begun to grow.
And how could I answer
anything without being so reposed
in living room, nooked in felt
sling, furling in understanding,
slung for schemes sprung
stones flung and verses sung
versus these toweringly uncertain
titans and curses?
How could I begin but being
idle before I dole and mete
out un-mittened, smitten
demolition
of these gods and idols?
No comments:
Post a Comment