prayer of complaint

I spent those months in consistent disarray,
trying to ensure the ends of these strings
were always neatly tied and grounded.

I am exhausted now,
now that the strings have all been pulled apart.
Some hang limply at my sides, and some drag
behind me through salty snow and softened soil.

Healing, they say, is letting go of the tense
worry – the hell with tying those strings;
but now that I have let them go,
I am everywhere and nowhere,
I am with everyone, but with no one.

I raise these aging palms and ask only of God
to not let me slip again.

faith

while doing the “right thing,”
time sanded the roughness of my
disbelief and carved it out of its coarse,
splintering wood.

I came to a pool of understanding, my
cupped palms lifting this soothing drink
to my chapped lips.
Its water is like ice on these bruises,
its reflection, clear and pristine.

and I wonder how it was before
time built scabs over our wounds; how
did we survive without the coolness of
faith running down our parched throats?