The hand beckoning toward a light I have always felt deep in my bones,
Have pushed back and thwarted,
Leaving it alone for years.
To do what I love
Is the burning desire in my core.
This crafting, weaving of worth, words, and worship,
Asking God along the way
If this is what walking on cliff is supposed to feel like—
A scary joy starting like butterflies singing quietly
Even though butterflies don’t sing.
I imagine they would answer their maker’s hand outstretched
Calling without a word, like a sign,
Prayed for: come, fly forth over the empty chasm,
Here we go.
Read more from 31 days of poetry.