The Song is Still There

Time has been hard on some things, soft on others.

Hands that planted, hoed, kneaded, washed, spanked, played, and praised

are soft with disuse—

in many parts the feeling gone.

.

Where once fingers crunched numbers,

curled hair, cooked, crocheted, and quilted—

precise and prodding—

they are now in some ways unresponsive, lap-sitting, waiting.

.

And the wrinkles have come,

sagged sage,

leaking out time after time—

and it seems unfair for one so capable to be so dependent, lonely,

planted among babbling others who are reliving horrors and wonders,

imagined and real.

.

The vibrato is elastic and uncontrolled,

but the song is still there—

words carried along on the memory and soul imprint

from days and months and faithful years of

worship.

.

And the miles walked and fires stoked and kids raised

are etched in lines across your face.

Much of the meaning is tweaked or gone,

but the heart is still loving.

The dreams are misplaced,

but the mind is still dreaming

of a forever

when weakness and age is swallowed up in pure

kingdom.

Unrestrained

Every time blond child is allowed in the front yard,

the wide yard, the wild world,

and ever since she has discovered how legs work,

and how wills work,

she makes a bee-line for the street, as fast as her little toddle can waddle.

She runs toward danger,

toward pain and tears,

laughing all the while because she still doesn’t know the danger,

the terrors,

the death in choosing that kind of unrestraint.

But unrestrained is not freedom.

She ought to trust that she is always safest in Father’s arms.