is not carved gently by Your waters
but violently, violently, with pain
from the stony edifice of my being
in floods and droughts, undeniable:
ice cracking the crust of my Earth,
summer torrents pouring over me
in an endless conflict chiseling
the native evil from my soul:
“it rains on wicked soil”
is not a promise but a threat
growling of inevitable redemption.
i resist, and the waters pool: see
how i long for this, or resent the other:
until dams burst in destructive release
and You overwhelm my straining flesh.
Your conquest does not feel like love.
i often grieve Your righteous victory over me
—my spirit wants to whisper “and yet,”
but i do not want any part of this.
perhaps i shall in time; over millennia;
until which point i sit in silent loss
watching, piece by bloodied piece
Your canyon form upon my wayward heart.
June 2023
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