What you must think
when you look at me—
and my feeble stumblings toward you,
and my confused attempts to understand your holiness,
And I keep passionately trying to figure it out—
following those plastic feet laid out for me,
trying to put together the steps of the dance . . .
and getting it all mixed up.
What if . . .
(perhaps just for a brief moment)
I stopped trying to figure you out—
and raised my hands
(like that ten month old child)
Would you bend down and pick me up—
calm me with your kiss,
might I find,
that my understanding wasn’t really that important after all . . .
What I must think
being held in your arms—
and the peace I must find there,
and how I might discover the simplicity that somewhere I lost in all my