(about 2002)
I have pictures
hanging on my walls-
framed and matted;
prim, proper-- straight.
Not like Thy walls
so long ago.
Mother earth reflects
the reality
on the endless boundary,
rough and rocky;
crates, crevices-- stones,
that tell me why,
perhaps more easily,
people saw God
everywhere.
I mustn't forget
amid my straight walls,
square, angular;
God is here.
Outside my window
is a leaf.
God shaped it
with His gentle hands.
Inside my heart
is a dream.
God shaped it
with His gentle hands.
God's path is straight
like my pictures
and their frames,
but His answers
are unique, different,
even like stones;
no two are the same,
just like people.
