when i visited dan allender's class with you a couple of weeks ago, i was intrigued by something specific he said. he noted that often, things are not readily clear, like prose, but need a deeper dive into their mystery, like poetry.
so, to honor mystery, i'll share a poem that i wrote in 1996 for a man i would not meet until 1999 - figure that one out.
they grip a book firm and then tight
his fingers turn pages night upon night
eyes filter the page, he reads and takes time
to render each word and unmarked sign
his mind is searching for meaning,
looking to find truth and understanding
fingers follow each sentence from start to end
his hands flip the page at the corner's bend
word tell stories that fill his cluttered head
and remind him of dreams he's left unsaid
of one day building his house in the sky
a house built by his own hands; a paradise
i want to know details of his hidden dreams
is it a house of stone? or of wooden beams
show me pictures, use a thousand words or more
tell me why your hands are now wounded and torn
his lips spoke an undeniable story
a voice rang strong, a tale of truth and beauty:
'i chose not beams, wood, or stone - instead,
i used my hands to make a house into a home.'