A snail is a slug with a shell,

is like a hand with only one thing to claim,

was like my thoughts that leapt out of a stream,

fell on land and could not get back.

        Old life

like a spider caught in quicksand,

gone into the murky underground.

        Worry was a cavity,

a reservoir endlessly re-filled,

scooping up a cup, resolving a problem,

as old problems grew larger to fill the space

or infant ones formed.

        Leaving the dramatic spinning wheel,

mending the wounds of sacrifice.

        How long before the thirst to satiate

is satiated, then becomes thirst again,

greater than the first longing?

Why is there heat everyday and never rain?

Is time just the planets rotating

like spherical untouchable gods, or

is it nonsense, divisions made

for small minds to draw imaginary

pathways through stark oblivion?

        When I learned

Jesus walked with his arms open,

his hands empty, feeding, being fed,

then I arrived in God’s grace

as though I had always been there.

My past was relinquished,

incorporated like a candle flame

into a larger fire,

into the greatest summit.




Copyright © 2020 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “Raven Cage Zine” August 2020

Issue 48

RavenCageZine48- August 2020



Published in “The Academy of The Heart and Mind” October 2020



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



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