We already have an egg.
It is us, becoming.
What if we don’t need to work so hard?
What if we are fine as frog’s hair,
fit as a fiddle,
chicken and egg at the same time?
It is another time for the chosen.
As for me the danger of that is
what I was
because I used to think
that past is just prequel.
I should just leave well enough alone
and leave the future to itself.
It will keep on doing what it wants
There is nothing more sad than seeing your own body
broken in pieces.
Our bodies are books
written by God
in the margins, in the gutter, on the spine.
Scribbled notes or glittering manuscripts
hastily written or lovingly preserved
makes no difference to the One
Who wrote us.
There are no withdrawn
no dog eared copies
In God’s library.
We are all beautiful and all needed.
These books are dry patches of a church.
Every day we walk alone.
Each person is a silent building.
Everything that is beautiful is lonely.
Right now you are not awake.
Really, won’t you take my words?
They aren’t even mine any more.
(A predictive text poem, using the letters in the word “water” as a prompt. Written on retreat, 1-17-14, at 8:30 pm.)