Dear Father God,

I can’t hear the drumbeats anymore.
Nor the rhythm of fife and song
Beside which, step by step in step
My naive words marched along
Gone, all gone.

I can’t taste the disturbed earth
Stirred between the sole and the globe
Scuffled into rising clouds, trailing down
Like the train of a monarch’s robe
As off we’d go

And I don’t miss the words
A galaxy in locus
Weaving points to define ideas
Complexities in single-minded focus
Or endeavoring thus.

The everyday simplicity
Of working with my hands,
And leaning into silence
Feels a better way to stand
But either way,

I yield to Your plan,
Come what may.