The gift of not seeing — it hides
beneath a gray sweater and makes
rainbow colors. It paints my eyes
a deeper shade of green. It is a
novice at all things true, and
tells with loyal honesty. It never
masks its feelings behind a sleek
The gift in glassy blue has
wide, thin strips of gentle beamings.
Its color turns orange to blue to
green, and a thousand different leanings.
The shades of the shadow produce
first a hand
then a fist
an obscure movement
the skin goes then
as fishes eye-of-blue —
Another eye, though smaller still
Is it all right?
What does it feel?
I do not know —
I only see
of outer me
Yeshua has told me to hold on to the story of the Prodigal Son.
Not because my adult child (no proper terminology exists) is expected to come back to me on her hands and knees begging to be called a man again.
No, it is about those who are already home, fixing up their bedrooms just so, and holding themselves enamored with their chosen existence.
It is about those who feel they have more of a right to exist in their own spiritual space and to keep others out based on their idea of what it takes to be worthy. They place appearances and their ability to discipline themselves over and above others’ sense of honesty. They weigh themselves on the scale of life and find others wanting. It is as if they were on a see-saw, holding the weightier worth in their being; they keep the others forever down and helpless as they suspend them in the air.
Don’t be surprised if they stop playing with you, children.
We won’t be surprised when we visit, imperfect, and you don’t want to let us in.