High up on my horse, a turquoise bike
This day’s form of traveling
A trio of dogs grinds me to a stop
Gathers for awhile
Sniffing wet black noses
Sparking a human interchange
Of neighbors who live quietly
With all their secrets
Needing to be released and shared
This one grips and grinds, my heart’s beats
Like rusty bike chain needing oil
Now days have passed, the rain has come
And I am still marinating in her words.
I shall ride my bike again.
Go looking for more stories
The kind that tell of life’s delays.
And take myself on hunts to gather
Words of what comes after waiting.
Sometimes stories come to you
Wet with grief and ripe with pain
Ones that bear no smile of waiting
Forty years to own your boxer dog
The one you rescued from the pound.
Sometimes the stories come to you
Drenched in pain and open wounds
Of marriages that break apart
Of babies that were due to come but haven’t yet
Of children who will not wear a cap and gown
The ones of jobs that slip away
The ones of lives that rip and shred, financial ruin
Cancer cripples men
Faith rumbles like the thunderous spring storm sky
Whispering why while pressing onward
Houses meant to close but don’t
Moves and jobs and men and deals
Churches, reconciliation, children
Time stands still for those who wait
But there are stories of redemption
They tell of purpose in the pauses
I cannot hear them loud enough.
And I
Hunched and hovering
I wait with baited breath unsteady
Will my boxer come to me
Dodging all the tired and warn out
Cliched comments for the weary
For the lonely, sad and hurting
How strange her wait was held to forty
Now I want to know her more
For there are holy others called to waiting
In the desert
Called to hold
On for longer
Why
Oh why
Can’t I
With
Sacred
Grace
Hold
Hope
For
Human
Suffering
I
Feel
I
Know
Too
Much
I
Pray
I
Know
too
much
Joining Laura for Playdates at The Wellspring
elizabeth w. marshall 