The Only One
Time will catch us by surprise, reach out with greedy talons
scratching moments from our eyes. Bucolic broccoli lives.
Born again Christians, prophets all. Born again
And again and again. Each measured moment chosen
With which crier’s call. Moments laid by each to waste
unseen, unused, unanswered. Gone. Contents never faced.
No touch opened such as this one gift embraced. Alive.
Dripping in remission. This world was taught to us.
How to live, was not.
Cheeks touched or brushed with gnarled, sinewed hand of God,
Walking in fields of flowing wheat between each downy hair
On each surrendered arm a soothing voice, alluding voice
Softly walking long through single minds
Embracing flowered memories Son and He and We entwined.
Touched in mornings when the body’s most alive.
Held in evenings when the fragile soul can least survive.
Reached with broken arms and stunted thoughts,
Impaled on jagged edge of broken spirits
Holiness escapes us as a frigid death
Each life from all is torn by silenced breath.
Wiser men too soon become our younger Gods,
And we will make this new life work
Because it is the only one we have.
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