Adventures in the Word

I thought I knew what love must be
and so I put it in an envelope
and affixed its label carefully,
assigned its taxonomy along
with faith and hope and dignity.

But love wouldn’t stay holed up for long;
it had a way of eating away
at its chains, so subtly, secretly
until it kindly returned the favor and
shackled me, yet I really didn’t mind.

Love. There. But now that I’ve said it
any other flowery words are
plainly way too small and unworthy
of it at all. We barely touch this love
and then it hides – it’s unpossessable.

Like Jesus, a guest in Emmaus
breaking bread, their eyes together
saw him risen – shocked they couldn’t
hold him, but once he’d gone his words
lit their hearts and made them smolder.

For generations now the world
has cut and carved their wood and stone
trying to congeal a god of love for all
but all they got were caricatures –
loony ’toons that made us joke and moan.

But little did we know that love
was working all the time
behind the stage, then briefly came
on the scene and stretched himself
for love – finally nailed, on a beam.

Oh, if life itself could be a walk of love
and every stride, that much closer to its shrine,
if I could lay myself upon its altar
and refuse to wiggle off its flame,
then my life would be a fitting, but unfinished frame
    for the One who is this Love.

– David Herin

I mastered the art of walking
at least by the age of four or so.
The problem was my strides got longer –
my legs kept wanting to grow.

What could then be simpler than
a right, a left, and soon we’ve got our groove,
but careful – looks can be deceiving,
it’s tricky balancing such automatic moves.

Self-ambulation seems simple enough,
but its enemies stand and stare
and dare to ask the paraplegic if
she wants to get out of her chair.

Some are laid up in casts and crutches
and hobble around, holed–
up, kicking themselves for
painting from a ladder, tip-toed.

Most can walk just fine, most of the time,
’til vertigo’s whimsy strikes them down,
their minds swim around and ’round
and finally drop in a heap to the ground.

Some try to run before they can walk,
frustrated, they just talk
and think of themselves much too much
and so cannot run or – much less – walk.

Walking has no want for foes:
stroke, or sickness, sloth, or shades of death,
whether suddenly or slow,
all await to trip us in their net.

We walk, rocking arms and legs
like pendulums, canceling,
trying hard to balance east and west,
but aren’t we abler just by joining hands?

I’m walking, straight and sound,
but only with my Unfathomable Friend.
Sure, I could try to run a marathon,
but in the end, we’ll just start walking again.

– David Herin