yesterday
(and every yesterday it seems)
folks stood patiently in line
numbers clutched in their
prosecutorial hands,
eager to take their turn
making it quite clear
all the mistakes made
(at least to this point in my life),
all those things I forgot
to do (i swear they were on
my list!),
all that accountability that
doesn't seem to add up right;
but on that day
you will walk down the line
high-fiving each person
as you slyly slip their
judgments out of their hands,
crumpling them up
and tossing them behind you.
on this day
we limp through,
our weary, sore soles
seeming to find each
sharp-edged pebble
poured out on the path
in front of us
by the banes of our
lives;
but on that day
you will come,
tearing your baby quilt
into long strips,
dipping them into
the cool waters of
Grace's well,
swaddling our tender
souls.
tomorrow,
we will once again
scan the horizon
waiting to catch
a glimpse of
Catastrophe
as it edges ever closer,
its cataclysmic jaws
opening and closing,
longing to devour our
hope;
but on that day
you will come,
carrying a picnic basket
loaded with bread
and wine,
spreading a blanket
broad enough for all of us,
pulling out your
harmonica
to play us the songs of
eternity.
come,
Dayspring,
] come the day.
(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman
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