It was the wind

After Romans 8: 22-29

It was the wind I noticed

first, as it increased

from breeze before

it progressed to storm,

the wind carrying all

before it, sweeping away

what was to leave space

for what will be, its noise

a groaning in my ears,

a groaning so harsh it tears

at the heart of my soul,

stripping away the clay

so carefully constructed,

exposing the nakedness

to cleanse, to clothe,

to lift up.

Photograph by Jacob Ufkes via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Groans

After Romans 8:22-29

It comes deeply,

this groan, a tearing

of the soul, a pain

coming from the waiting

for the healing, promised.

The dove flies into the groaning,

itself groaning in words

inexpressible, simultaneously

deflecting, interceding, searching

a parallel responsibility

to prick, to stimulate, to strip

away even as the interceding

continues without ceasing,

continues with groans too deep

to comprehend.

We wait as the shaping

and molding continue,

creating a work forever

unfinished. The waiting,

too, is a work, if not

of art then certainly

a work designed to be

in progress, and we know

this is true because

we know in hope, a mother

awaiting the gestation,

a child awaiting the arrival

of its father, the hands

holding, the arms

enfolding, home,

here.

Photograph by Joe Gardner via Unsplash. Used with permission.