This is the fourth installment of a series about water, a poem-prayer written near the beginning of 2016 that touches on the themes of ecological disaster and suffering that were discussed in the second installment, but also reaches toward hope, transformation and the nearness of the Holy Spirit explored in the third installment. Click here for the introductory entry. As always, if you are inspired to contribute some of your own writing as we go along, I would be delighted.
I trust that I, even I,
can be transformed.
I trust you to take me and shake me,
And put me back where I belong;
To make me into your song.
Do you cry for me?
Do you weep raggedly?
Do your hold your aching chest
for the children poisoned
by the trickle-down water of greed in Flint?
Do you gasp and grab fistfuls of your shirt
for the fishing villages and the fish
along the bone-dry basin of Lake Poopó?
Do you long with us to pour out rain
and the fragrant oil of peace on
the parched and cracked communities of Colombia?
I can only keep moving
in this dense haze of my little pain,
of the world’s dry, tortured rage,
If I know you are crying with me.
Dying with us.
If I know I have a great high priest
who can sympathize with my weakness.
My limbs are weak, head sore from worry.
My movements are constrained,
wing tips cut now by the god of worldly comfort,
by my own numb insecurity.
But you, you vibrate somewhere deep
in my muscles, in my blood.
You flow and surge, keeping my spirit awake