Wednesday, January 11, 2012

God Smokes a Corncob Pipe

Miner, Kentucky 1946

There is dirt
God's fingernails.

He is
a hard worker,
when to work,
when to rest.

He mines
the dark corners
of my soul.

At the end
of a day
He emerges,
hands full 
of blackness.

I avert my eyes-
though some
of it is my creation.

God never
all at once,
with everything.

He knows
I would die,
of sorrow.

What is more,
I am the foreman
of my soul,
(if I am cowardly).

At times I insist
that God return
what He has found.

It can be too much.

When I lose
He waits,
feet up,
a corncob pipe
and whistling.

God is a miner 
I would buy
stock in,
he is gentle
and does not
mine junk.

He doesn't blow
the tops off
majestic mountains.

Darkness is darkness.

But this is the God
who turned
a bloody death
into salvation.

When He mines 
it turns to gold.


Anthony said...

Did you write this Agnes? It's beautiful.

tagnes said...

I did T, thanks :)