Beeping, tapping, leaning
On the gray, nebulous box
Spits out paper, curled and fancy,
Looks like fun, or so I thought.
Spinning, shaking, sweating,
On the tall, angry structure,
Her soul looks brighter here
With friends, no fear, no rupture.
Hallowed voices, countless chores
The context argues, scary or peaceful?
She comes in and she’s nervous again,
Cut off, closed in by all God’s people.
Counting white lines and yellow lights,
The green signs glow in the seas of night
I don’t trust the flame that burns the white,
Yet she guides us home with faith, not sight.
The walls could use more color,
The room could use more toys,
But she’s at her best here,
Far beyond stress, events, the noise.
If my fingertips could tell a story,
What in the world would they say?
Would they speak of the woman in yellow?
Would they tell of the night on the train?
She said, “Your fingers, crafty as they are,
Don’t know the smell of the eve of rain.
They haven’t felt the sounds of love,
Yet they move with all that grace.”
I said, “These hands, they are so tired.
The world has only told me,
Of things I must humbly hold,
And of things I must acquire.”
A day is coming soon, though
Where they’ll finally have their say,
They’ll put everything down,
And to the music, they shall sway.
So, she told me of a tune, God wrote with his fingerprints.
“All of creation knows it, and sings it all the time.
It’s a song of sweet surrender and a season to unwind.”
She said, “It’s fine if you don’t recognize
the song creation sings,
But take the time to learn.
You’ll have a full life of time to
teach yourself some things,
Let it be Nature’s turn.”