He stood alone
in the rabble kingdom.
The racket and the roar swelled around him
so he sat down
on a stone
and spoke:
“Why fret and gnaw your hands?
Why squirm on a bed of nails?
Study the gray wagtail
with sunlight bursting
from his chest.
Watch him swoop
to catch color, content
with mayflies,
water,
and air.
Is he not splendid
in his smallness?
And behold blue flax,
delicate and coy.
Or ebullient honeysuckle
with her heart on her sleeve.
Lie down in fields of amber
and walk amongst the clapping trees.
Who robes them in glory?
Are you sweating beneath the lash
of Maybe
and Not Yet?
Come,
sit here
on this rock.
Let us wait,
together, and
find God in the waiting.
Now
is enough.
Let tomorrow be
tomorrow.”
