Worship

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All the day you have shadowed my horizon,
Looming large in my sight each time
I glance up from my working hands.
“Come,” you whisper on eager winds
As they fly past me, and around again.
I want to be ready for you,
And so I toil here, failing in my humanity
To prepare for the divine. Instead,
All I can do is scoop my broken pottery,
Give them up to your capable hands.
You take them into yourself,
And begin to rain in my desert.
I lift my face to you, tasting grace
In each drop as they fall.

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