Love,
made on the kitchen table
across with eyes, fountains to
empty pitchers,
lies and jars of pennies.
Such is the family heritage.
I admit, I am one
capable and culpable,
I give up and in
and go.
This pursuit of happiness
in the Driftless region
of agnostic hypocrites
such a harmonious cacophony.
It's electric.
Now I wait for a penman
from the Red Cedar River,
I wait for the Man
of God to enter
again
into this Tapestry
and complete the loose ends fraying
and batten down the hatches blowing
and rescue mind from Satan's plaguing
and until then,
counting it all joy;
He is singing, strumming, loving
over us, over us.
