I AM a work in progress

I am
a work in progress—

Well,
that’s
extremely kind. . .

as I contract,
expand. . .

And, in doing so,
I follow no
well carved out
or pretty plan. . .

And, in the end,
more fit am I
to call a mess
than a seeming intermittent-worked
masterpiece in progress. . .

But then,
I have heard tell,
that to say that
might mean
there is one crucial thing
I just don’t get–

That, though my humble
body-mind-spirit,
after so very many years,
falls so far short of perfect,

in actuality,
the spans of time
and possibility
lie far beyond
the reaches of my mind,

and I’m not
just fashioned
by my lone hand,
but factor in
some larger, grander,
long-range plan,

and, though my art
speaks from my heart
and has flowed naturally
from me,
from near my very start,

I’m not
the only artist
working here,

though how the other
really looks
remains
as yet to me unclear—
my unseen commissioner,
and collaborator. . .

And therefore,
I must learn
much better
to cooperate,
so we work more smoothly,
as a set,

for,
by now, it’s been
many a year,

I need to trust,
suspend my fear,
as slow,
I grow
in readiness,
catching my stride
settling into
satiated emptiness,

to let the work go on. . .

For I
am
part of the art
that’s being worked through
and on,

and though
I still can’t know,
I’ll dare to bet,
this life of mine
is not near through,
so, I’ll step out
on a limb
to say to you,

all seems only right and fit,
in this stubbornly imperfect moment,
and perfection won’t be bought
like a ticket on a jet. . .

Meanwhile
I will give thanks
for who I am,
and just how far
along that route
I’ve got. . .

And, though
I ride a lumbering horse,
when, at least,
I’d rather speed
to a slow trot,

I am, in fact, on schedule. . .
And,
Exactly. On. My. Course.

And,
due to the deft artistry
of my keen, collaborating force,

I will arrive–

somehow,
some way,
in some form
complete,
and vitally alive,
In. Perfect. Time–
as I breathe the final breath
into this rhyme,

in the hope,
that I’m just right,
seem in some
grander, unseen scope. . .
and that
the thing I’m meant to get

is that there is
a vital truth–
God needs me
much as I need
air, water, and food. . .

And,
Who am I,
with my high standards,
God to deprive
of me,
against his plans
so to intrude,

if what the others say
is really true:

That God is working hard on me,
and if I asked Him,
He would say,
He is not finished with me yet.

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This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Prayer and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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