For years he had thought
that God belonged to a secret society
one he could never be part of.
Notwithstanding, he imagined himself a mystic,
carried his soul around as the child of Rumi.
In the prime of life, as sometimes happens,
rats began to gnaw at anchor ropes,
he began to drift away from his true self.
At last, at his wits end, he made a promise,
he vowed to be a maker of words,
words that if weaved into poetry would be proof
of God’s life in him.
Words came. Words not wise nor holy,
but ordinary and every day.
His work was to be this enactment
upon a Scrabble board
a stage where symbols are wrought
from letters and words.
If he were speaking now
he would tell you
that though he picks the letters,
though he arranges those words,
he is certain sure that God will always be
the supplier of all meanings.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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