canticle 23

with you at my side,
i am not poverty-stricken:
finding rest in your lush love,
stilling myself by baptismal pools,
dipping my frantic feet
in the cool waters;
you add zest
to my fading impishness,
you carve your name
in each paving stone
set in the path.

when fear, sickness, doubt
crook their finger at me
from the shadows,
i can lean on
your walking stick
to make my way to
that table where
my rivals are seated;

you pour healing oil out
for dipping the bread of life,
the cup of grace spills over
staining my hands with hope.

Shirley, Goodness, Mercy
(friends from childhood)
and I play follow the leader
till we end up
on the front porch,
you welcoming us with
wide-open arms of joy.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman