caesarea philippi (mark 8:31-38)

early each morning,
   you stand behind me,
      Valet of my life,
            straightening the collar
               on my shirt, rolling
         the lint off my pants leg,
            handing me my cross
            before i walk out
                      the door,
   whispering,
      'don't forget this'

if
            my cross turns out
to be you,
      Juncture of choices, with your
         uncomfortable hopes,
         difficult words,
         uncompromising stare,
   may it dig into my shoulder
            just enough
            to remind me,
      but not so much
      i become too callused
         to feel
               you;

when that little
         tear
      in my cross threatens
   to widen,
            take out your
            scarlet thread and
               your darning egg,
          Seamstress of hope,
   mending it so my soul
      will not slip out
               unnoticed.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman