Up from my many valleys of death, up from the sum of my wants, up from the total of my weaknesses, comes my need to write poetry.

My spirit, dimpled and dented, feel a pull to completeness; the gentle stroke of poetry takes away the heaviness of my bones. And refreshed, I find myself carried on to the green pastures.

So I pick up a pen. It becomes my rod. I hold it light, knuckles soft and mild, fingers ready to dance, heart and hands in perfect release of relentless pursuits, and I wait for my Shepherd's comfort.

As I hold onto His promise of abundance, my blank paper bursts to overflow with a banquet of syllables dressed as seeds. Each seed becomes a blossom and my freckled fingers feel the call to gather its petals in a symphony of rhythms, music, light. They guide me to celebrate the birth of a child, the verdant peak of a tree, the square root to infinity.

Like a sacred balm, the fluid mystery of His waters spread peace over my soul, my skin, my sins.

Unfolding grace, my earth-bound being can't comprehend. All I know is that when I write poetry I feel closer to grace. And in the process, I feel I am already dwelling in the house of the Lord.