Rough Road this Season
reluctant poetry approaching holy week
The master said, this path is poorly marked
and leads to no place you will recognize.
He said, you’ll stumble often, and you’re not
the hiker I’ve become, by half.
You’re packing way too much upon your back
and in your greedy hands, although I’ve said
I’d share the weight.
The master said, I’ve given you a compass
and a light. And you can find my north
by stars or songs or simply by your soul —
if ever you will see what’s plain to see.
The master said, I call, and call, and wait
for you to make a start, get off the dime,
and take at least one tiny, timid step;
But then the master said, you usually don’t.
So I break death and skew the axis of the earth,
each resurrection season, just to show you one more time
the way to walk this path ahead:
I mark the road again for you
(and better souls than you)
and hope you mark it in your turn
for someone else, beloved child,
when you get up and grow and dare to
go where I have promised.
I showed you how to get there.
You start out on the X.
Poetry is restless and relentless within me until I reluctantly, even bitterly, let it emerge. Even then, it’s never satisfied and sometimes demands revision. This one had to be revised March 23, 2020.
