How have I grown so afraid of this place,
stark and frameless, patina of footsteps,
so individual that I can hear my spirit breathe.
How have I forgotten that I must stand here
in the empty room, spread my arms wide
and call for you in this echo chamber.
Sometimes I don’t recognize my own voice.
Lord, there are always so many things to do, to say
to retrieve and remember, and I am holding just one life–
my own. Where are your hands in the white that washes
everything this sun-kept gold? Where is evidence
of a resurrection that I can follow in my own life? Where
are your Words within the scape of this fallow? Lord,
what do I do first–believe, obey, sit motionless and wait?
Entering is always a posture no matter the door chosen,
and we always find ourselves in the uninhabited only to hear:
He is not here.
My own salvation is this mecca. Daily. As much as it takes.
My Writing Life 