Psalm Unknown: Last Night I Did Not Go Walking

Last Night, I Did Not Go Walking

Last night, I did not
go walking,

but sat, quietly,
on a curb.

Two calls, in two days,
had made clear

insufficiencies,
on my part.

Worrying, now, my
fingers found

loose threads at my sleeve.
More edges

unraveling.  Some
thing to catch

I am sure.  Alone,
I spoke soft,

but did not find words
to finish.

* * *

Later, inside, I
wrote a bit.

I did not write words
of value.

What is there to say?
I am not

a sewer of clothes.
I have no

talent with needles,
nor fingers

hardened by effort
and calloused.

"And yet," one might say,
"your coat sleeves

need mending.  They will
not be sewn

themselves."  I know this
is some truth.

* * *

I think, on some nights,
of a man:

hands full of small seeds,
and walking

between furrows of
rich, soft dirt.

With authority,
he scatters,

but never looks where
his seeds go.

"There are so many,"
he must think--

"What are a lost few,
here and there?"

* * *

I am no sower
of small seeds.

I have no talent,
or green thumb.

But at the end of
my sleeves, threads

are coming undone.
Who else sees

what the crows will take
but--now--me?

Last night, I did not
go walking.

I sat on a curb,
to think or

pray.  Then my fingers
found edges,

coming unraveled--
or unsewn.


KMC 4/7/14