He does not linger with scoffers
in the slow swirl,
bubbled stem of settled
bar beer, the loiterers'
golden climb.

He sweats all day, in Presence,
mumbles among his tools.

How could he be moved?
He is the original natural man,
moving in seasons built for him.
His laugh is the laugh of water.
He does not count success.
It is his fingers.

Not so the wicked, not so.
He has no self
outside of God, sees what he is
as drives, no one behind the wheel;
chaff, before too many winds.

So how shall he stand-THEN?

But God roses the path
the takers of virtue choose.
It is His heart
they walk on, carefully.
But the way of the wicked
is too wide for signposts.
It is a desolate field
and offers nothing
no one can take.