Our ship stands off the coast. From where we lie,
The moss“green hills resemble what we’ve lost:
Sweet plenty, peace, a smiling sky,
A life in moments, no regrets,
No yearning for unreachable not yets.

But then we shoot the surf and make the land,
And then begin our days of heat and frost,
The insects, shirkers, boredom, sand.
Anticipation never gave
The view it framed beneath its architrave.

We wait, we hope, imagine what’s to come,
Beg something like true home once we have crossed
To Love, to where all lines are plumb.

Reality, however, fails.
We leave our dreams to see a world that pales.

And You, my Lord, who know our thwarts and balks,
Who met them and Yourself paid out the cost,
Still call us with the preacher’s talks
Toward landfall that outshines his words

As tended gardens do the scat of birds.


”John Brugaletta