It seems clear while watching
the heron lift from the pond,
wings stretching toward the sky,
moving the air beneath its expanse,
God’s in charge.

I am not.

And yet, if I may ask,
as one asks the wind
why it bends the palm but fells the oak?

what of love,
pulling us toward one another
while leading us to You?

While no love be truer
than the one who first
spoke light into being,

would it not be simpler,
like a hawk riding the current,
to fly straight home?

And what of beauty?
Sunsets, waterfalls, the first pale crocus
pushing through snow.
You must be in these.

But I stand at the mirror,
watching the lines of my face sharpen with years,
this image, this likeness,
could it be Yours?
     (If so I may need some convincing)

Are You perchance still at work,
perfecting the river,
the trees,
me?

Or am I the one whose work is in process,
turning each page with weathered hands,
while You, the Author,
allow me an occasional, if tangential,
line in my own story?

To love another along the way,
      (perhaps this is, itself, the journey)
love returning, always,
to its source.

To see as You see,
to reflect as You shine,
to know You in the face of another,

this, too, is worship.

The Truth is unequivocal,
You are my God.
And I am Yours.