Psalm #3 (The Come By Here)

On Mondays, I’ve been ¬†stretching my pen a bit, diving into a practice of psalm writing. It seems there is so much noise these days, and the constant volley of purported Christian ideals (emphasis on “purported”) drowns out the more personal expressions of the faith. I suppose Mondays are my way of offering a counter volley, weak though it may be.

I hope you enjoy these, and I’d love it if a few of you stretched into writing Psalms on Mondays with me.

*****

Psalm #3 (The Come By Here)

Not unlike the saw-leafed sycamore
did my family grow into glory,
it’s low branches pruned by
three arborists and father
time,
so that the canopy stretched
higher and straighter,
the roots reached deeper to
bedrock, into the heart of
the rich and endless
earth.

I, Zacchaeus, climbed
hoping for the uppermost branches,
for the grace to dissolve
into ash-white bark, to
stretch
arms into limbs, fan
fingers into leaves, and
to be fully nourished in
the rising of this morning’s
exploding
Come By Here.

*****

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  • Thank you, from one poet-heart to another, for leaving the playground, going off by yourself and seeking wisdom. You are greatly appreciated.

    • sethhaines

      Thanks, Tonia. Thanks much.