The marketplace vendors admit they can’t explain God.
They shrug and pocket pomegranates. Argue the flax is

souring too quickly. They weave a melancholy spirit
into baskets full of mystery – peeled willow, coiled and

stuffed with sweet dates. A muddy gray dove calls, his
lusterless warble circling the lonely worshipers,

ones who are weary of haggling. We do what we must,
but I’ve never been able to trust the words of worship,

ones polished like coins. I went to search for water and silence in
the noon heat, trying to cover my ignorance with talk of the

things I knew – this well, my thirst, the mountain. But the spirit
dazzled me like a waterfall, finding the cracks and

pouring past cliffs of my shame. It was easy to believe in
someone who wasn’t trying to sell me the truth.

You can listen to a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.