A Poem for Megan
SHIMMER I can't grasp at the hand of perfection anymore-- that elusive demon that promises the world, just always a finger breadth out of reach, creating the illusion of happiness finally at hand, and yet delivering the anguish of tepid rejection, quiet dismissal, a whispered lie-- you are NOT worthy. I will leave those barren fields behind. Rather-- I will bring my bruised heart and weary soul home. I will plant myself in the humble soil of Grace, and I will give myself the space to grow. I feel the Beloved surrounding me with the persevering nurture of creation, welcoming me to be-- just as I am-- sending rain like mercy, shining the radiance of love upon me, gathering the dust of commonplace community to hold me well-- as I send my roots deep, as I lift up my head, my hands, my heart, as I grow into the measure of Creative Imagination expending Itself on my behalf. ...