Psalm One
I came to the garden to listen and wait,
To walk in the way, to leave my mistakes.
The word growled in me day and night.
I writhed and raged. I moaned,
And meditated, and suffered.
I prayed the seed’s prayer at night, alone,
And something grew in me.
The word made root room.
It branched in me and doubled.
Dead branches sheared clean.
Green growth forked
And fruited, plush as peaches—
Costless, changeless, brimming.
The water finally ran clear
And free everywhere I looked.
The wicked aren’t like this.
The years they hoped to harvest
Dry and chaff all away.
They crisp and go dead.
Then the wind takes them.
But I will layer ring on ring
As God’s years mark loops in me.
I’ll listen for the whisper of psalms,
And begin what there is to begin.
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