I have been in your in-tray all my life
Though I did not know it
And thought I wrote
My own itinerary
In my own alphabet
On the rough, second-grade vellum
You had provided.
I cannot read those old destinations
Now – nor have I love enough
To regret them. I can only peer
Into the bare, summary logia
Running from future to past across
My much-corrupted palimpsest.
Your Aramaic style is good, although
They say you could not write,
And knew no Greek,
And told good stories,
Lived and died them.
Hold up the parchment, Lord,
Scrape the surface clean.
It is scored through and through
With failed love for virtue,
Obscuring the Kingdom’s character-set.
Inscribe me a song to sing –
And give me the prodigal’s part;
I know by heart the song
Of the other brother.
Write in light, Lord,
That I may still read
When my blood cools,
Still remember
When my song fails,
Still catch sight of you
When I sit to write,
Or share
In breaking bread.