I’m wearing black
because I’m mourning
the success of others.
(It’s okay, no one will read this.)
But I’m grateful for the thicket
behind my in-laws’ house—
the frog pond, the plywood bridge.
When I close my eyes there,
I hear You building a home
for me not made of applause
or money,
if I’ll accept it.
Most days, I don’t.
But when I was young and unemployable,
I cried real tears,
proclaiming This is God loving me,
even in defeat.
I want that faith again,
trust that outstrips understanding,
a whisper of reassurance,
on a path I know nothing about.
