nothing, but . . .

i have no proof,
but in the carpet
of motley grasses
Dusty rolls on
stretching his back;
in the multicolored
leaves
which hide the squirrels
from his gaze,
i discover you,
Imagination beyond compare.

it's not admissible evidence,
but in the daughter
who sits up
all night
while her father
slowly sleeps
into resurrection's arms;
in the mother
comforting her son
who made the last out
in the championship game,
i learn from you,
Compassion's Carpenter.

there is nothing concrete,
but in the mist
sculling over the lake.
in the ripples
which lullaby
the couple in the canoe,
in the breath
which cradles
the gently sailing geese,
i feel you,
Whisperer of life.

no proof,
no admissible evidence,
nothing concrete:

only you
God in Community,
Mystery in One.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman