Said the priest.
Funny that he thinks “father” is something to be got around,
An obstacle to thinking rather than aid,
A barrier or blockade rather than,
What I imagine they are, a bulwark,
Foundation—like the earth,
Without which, trees cannot reach the sky.
Perhaps this is why God is thought of often,
as a mother.
Mothers have borders, lines, and edges.
They surround us even as they force our growth—
out of them,
Mothers are not gotten around, ever.
A father, I have learned,
Is a teacher of small beauties,
A master in the gentle art of awe,
Instructor in how to name a leaf or bird correctly and
chop a log so veins of growth shiver loom-like threads in quarters at your feet.
Fathers do not truck with incapacity—there is always much that can be done,
but even more that calls for doing nothing.
The earth is full of wisdom for those quiet enough to listen.
An abundance of sights for those stopping long enough to see them.
My mist-filled poolside valley
is filling with the unembarrassed blush of sunrise,
Pink tickling every tree with untempered morning joy.
Perhaps I confuse holiness with license,
Authority with kindness,
Perhaps I am loose, imagining a God whose chief desire is delight,
A God whom I cannot get around,