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The Home Lights | |
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The Home Lights I am a titan. I am a sprite. I will climb to the mast-head, And see the sea in its un-resting chaos. I will make my home on the pond bank And see the leaf, the fish, the placid water With all of their order. I will wonder at the mind of God. I will see myself and wonder at the microcosm of the universe. I will look to the stars and wonder at the macrocosm of the self. I will wonder at the mind of God. What was God thinking, to make me so? The pain of longing, the agony of wonder overwhelms the senses, The frail capacity to glorify God Unless he glories in things not understood, Unfathomable, But what was he thinking, to make them unfathomable? Yet will I presume that God is, and loves, If I must presume anything (and I find that I must), And will presume again that there is something in me that he loves— Though I must find it in the dark. Two billboards on a highway, facing, from opposite sides: One for a new subdivision; The other a self portrait, nude, of a woman no longer young, Though young in the image. She is dark and wise. A man, yet darker, climbs from a ditch. Other men laugh at him: His clothes are dirty and worse, They are homade clothes, not bought from the store. He would not pay another man, When he could do for himself. So they laugh at him. He stares forward, resolute. A young boy of fifteen works to mark out the land of the new subdivision. He, too, is dark. His overseers rest, idly, in the shade As he measures, and records, and marks. Then, the work done, they send him on a last errand, And leave him, unpaid. A gang of young boys of light complexion walk along the lakeside. A little black boy of five tags along. The older boys send him to the bushes to pee, The leader must relieve himself too. They cover the black boy’s eyes to hide the white boy’s shame. Two young girls conspire. They wonder at why men stare. They are young, and do not know. They whisper. I cannot hear them. “Do you know where there is a boat?” one asks. “I know a canoe.” They ride in the back of a convertible to the lake. They cause wrecks on the way, as men turn to stare, Not looking where they are going. They come to the lake; they cast out in the canoe. I cannot see what happens to them. I see only from under the water. They are face down, eyes staring Summer dresses—jumpers soaked And flaring on the surface of the water. Perspective rises. I see the boat from above. Capsized, it looks like a whale swimming, Going nowhere. The old woman of the portrait sings: “What is it that dies, As the boat moves on? Drowned are the cries, But the boat moves on Its lost and lonely way.” I am lost. I am lost. In the dark, I am lost. And yet will I presume that God is, and loves. And if He is not, or does not, To hell with Him. A better world exist in my dreams, Than one without a God, and one who loves. And me? I am no titan. I am no sprite. I am a man. Enough pride and shame for any soul. Lost and finding my way. Hoping, dreaming, hurting, crying, Wondering at the mind of God, Longing for the home-lights I’ve never seen. Watching, waiting. Looking for the home-lights. Finding my way. |
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