Teary eyes call on faraway lands, a gleaming hint. Stop. Squint. Dreams. Calls floating words down, into print. On the paper. Gives way to wooden poles, beams. And look what my words created, a home. A tent.
I am a moving tent. A moving home. Carrying stories. Heartbreaks. Love. Mistakes.
Look at what I carry.
But I don’t always see my stories. My cross. I see eyes. Bangs. Breasts. Aging skin. My flesh teeming with sin.
His thoughts days away. One day I’ll look back and say, “Oh. You were right every step of the way.”
Little joys bend numbing days. Routine hours. They call back escaping rays.
Now I’m cooking. I carry my spoon.
Dip and mix and pour in oil, spices, those escaping rays.
The kitchen sounds get louder with the fading day.
I clang pots and grasp at ethereal thoughts.
Processing. Mixing. Cooking. Fixing every part of the day I let get away.
My idleness bothering me. My idols grasping to wedge in-between the Savior and me.
The day ending. Tiring. Reaching for its sabbath. The sun posting its for sale sign, and the moon tarries near, the new hire.
I walk to that wooden communal table. Look at what I carry.
As the sun clocks out, retreating to heal, I serve my day’s story, in the form of a meal.