Take, eat, so it goes. Still,
I can only digest so much
of this heaping helping of
benediction. I will mix metaphors
with mercies, myriad, maligned.
Mostly what I recall
from prayerful bow is tired knees.
Now I can’t say if answers sought
were simply unfound or unfounded.
I would raise my voice, still,
for reasons. I can’t ask, but manage to
forget. I was there – of course
I was there – for the formality,
the reverence. With dusted ashes,
the standard urn’s lid fell.
Inadvertent on the priest’s part,
mid-prayer. So we notice, even
in penitence, petulance. We ask,
three score and nevermore,
to understand; please God, to
understand. There’s no why, no
coffee hour contentment to
dismantle. I’m still a little lost,
though I suspect you are found.
Such is faith. Such is living, without,
but – persistently – within.
caroline ridgway 