If you measured my life
by low points and high,
all my loves and jealousies
recorded as scripture of extremes,
you’d miss times of stillness,
daily cycles when I fed
and clothed, cleansed
and smoothed out roughness.
You wouldn’t see the hours
I bore with wounds one can’t
ask friends to fast and pray for
because there is no cure for life,
no dramatic rescue for one
merely stuck in everyday mud.
But maybe you don’t need
to feel the weight of all this water
underneath each cresting wave.
Maybe there is truth enough
to glean from spare detail
and beauty enough at the edges
to sketch a face with tender eyes
that you can be pleased with,
as though you had returned
from a long journey
and seen the face of God.