A mustard seed of faith in fragile green
shoots through this hard-packed rationality
and all my mountains tremble in their places
all my oceans turn their stormy faces
to the open sky and see the Son of Man,
a ghost upon the heavens.
One small drop of infinite glows
Inside this finite shell—
and all the depth and wideness of the universe
its limitless expanse, barren stretch of wilderness
with broken planets and debris—
they live and move and breathe inside of me.
(A woman pregnant with the world is strange
and stranger still the mustard seed of faith
she shelters in her womb.)
Virgin Mary mother of my yes—
vessel bearing microscopic endlessness—
you teach me to believe in what exceeds my reach
the question as it tumbles down from God
(the brightly new the everlasting old
and resonant inside my fumbling mind).
My spirit has a palm, my soul an eye
and each are troubled by an empty ache
for I was made for everything I say—
“…for he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, driven and tossed by the wind.” —James 1:6
driven and tossed
by waves my lungs
my fingers stretch
for the unknown.
(my reach is weak
my gasp even
more so watch me
slide and move watch
me forget my
begin to drown.
a novice in
once abused who
shrinks beneath your
open hand who
lives in opaque
prisons of thought.)
my storms my pains
and they recede
beneath the bigness
J.F. Rains is a musician and mother of four who lives near Chattanooga, TN.
Photo Credit: “fern sprout” by Kazue Asano, Flickr.com.