This Page in My Hand

So, I like poetry, but I don’t really know how it’s supposed to “work"; it comes out occasionally and I feel its gravity, and it seems to say more than prose. I'm okay if it doesn't follow any poetry rules, and I know now it doesn't have to rhyme (though I do enjoy ones which rhyme!). 

Here is a poem that leaked out onto the page of my journal recently, inspired by the "mundane" moment of flipping a page in my Bible. It was an unexpected encounter with our God - Creator Spirit and Divine Beauty - who arrested my wonder in this otherwise inauspicious act I habituate each day. Something shifted in my attention and the world stopped turning for a brief kairos moment.


How frail,
the paper
in my hand.
I turn the page.
Timber once tall,
adorned with yellow leaf,
now thin and small.
This gift now gilded,
bending to my touch,
crackling in the turn,
with words
of life.



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