I don't know what to make of it,
or where to turn.
Depletion and disjointedness:
the indexes of middle-age.
The tired eyes. The over-indulged belly.
The limitations felt and no longer trespassed:
Weak knees, aching backs.
The first failings of the memory -
like a marble inside my mouth and fails
to fall out.
All proof the tide has turned,
and will not go back.
All that is left is
The other side of possibility;
foggy and confused;
the facing of sin
no longer as enemy to be vanquished,
but the steady presence,
the partner sitting on the sofa across the room,
knowing and fully known;
and despite my protests,
now part of me in ways I cannot know.
So infected, I come to see,
my struggles not will make me free.
Marked as I am, there is only
the waiting now.
No commodity can save me.
No move to a nicer neighborhood.
No putting my kids in the right schools.
No new job.
No mortal help will walk into the room,
only what might come by transfiguration,
like celestial heralds under the cold, open sky.
Only the possibility of a greater power,
lifting up within and beneath my bones,
of a story tied deep into the fabric of creation,
dancing in old men's heads
and glorious tellings
beyond all hope,
that second life
that will not wane
nor be snuffed.
complete and full.