November of last year, with autumn awakening in me again the desire to write, I set myself the task of fifteen songs and fifty poems. Any poetry I had written up to that point I had written for myself, as a spiritual and creative practice. But I wanted to see if I could make something beautiful, or at least good, in the realm of poetry, to see if I could make a warm little house on a rainy, treeless hillside, out of poems.
The forthcoming collection, Snowmelt to Roots, turned into a little house of more than one hundred poems. But however cozy the house may be, sometimes I forget I invited God to stay here as well. And it hardly seems fit to welcome him… (let the reader understand)
God and the Guest Room
I asked God to come live with me only I didn’t mention what a mess my house is and now I’m in the guest bedroom trying to shove everything into the closet anxious sweat on my brow trembling hands, shuffling and shoving, but when I go out to explain the state of his room I can’t find him the living room is empty I look out the front window— maybe he’s gone? brow-knitted, I turn and decide to make tea put the kettle on, wondering walking down the hallway to grab my book from the nightstand only to find that God has taken my room and in a tone that betrays an amusement with my surprise he says, “thanks for having me”