Still reeling from not-knowing,
I spin like a lopsided leaf
not too far from my lopsided tree.
It’s not necessarily unjust but certainly
un-something, this substitution of soft
and praise for sharp wisdom,
the kind I lack, not-knowing, craving,
the kind that souls die without finding,
panting sometimes for 90-odd years in a dried-up stream.
Inheritance of the rich and dead.
An evil man who knows how to give good things
is among mercy’s Father’s most generous gifts.
But what exactly can a cracked vessel trying
to make its own water provide?
And is it wrong for a child, thankful
for muddy and manmade water—truly
thankful—to call herself thirsty who’s yearning?
Each perfect gift I got from you