We’re made to be cast about,
broken and mended,
mended and broken again.
The best of us have been turned into fine dust,
ground between granite feathered hands,
unrecognizable
until we’re sculpted into new, cherished things.
Kneeling in pews we implore God
why have we been made to suffer,
to live in a world so cruel?
It’s the breaking of us open that matters.
We can’t find anything walking in straight lines,
bowing low,
heavy with shame
pretending we’re anything other than a glory of scattered leaves and singing dreams.
We stumble, shattering ourselves against walls of ambition, love, and time,
but we’re held by grace,
led into this moment of being,
where we can tumble into the infinite,
that fills the spaces in between.
