My dad always preaches about wildflowers when I come to visit.
We'd get to church two hours early,
And I'd still show up late to Sunday School,
Because I'd taken a walk in the woods,
Muddying my church shoes.
I was reading 1984 by George Orwell,
And I didn't even get in trouble,
Because no one in the congregation had read it.
I lost track of time.
I'm sorry.
They call me a wildflower,
Lost and aimless,
Delicately loved, anyway.
I broadened my horizons
To find they'd always been small.
I'm still the quirky, small-town kid birthed
In a trailer park in Mid-Missouri.
We'd run off there, too.
Sounds cliche,
But my sister and I would
Navigate the town by the railroad tracks.
School is forward.
The park is behind.
Got caught with Ayn Rand, once,
At grandma's wedding.
I read it all the way to the chapel,
To be reprimanded by a preacher
Who wasn't my dad.
He pointed me to the railroad tracks
And told me to walk home.
Be not lost.
Be not aimless.
Be not here today, gone tomorrow.
Blow not away in the wind.
Follow the railroad tracks
With your sister in line.
Cover your ears when the sound
Whistles so loud
You're passed out on the floor
Raging out the last of yourself.
Scream louder.
Move not out of the way.
When you find yourself a wildflower,
Muddying your church shoes,
Hold fast for the impact
And you will not be swayed,
I guarantee it.
YOU ARE READING
Pistis
PoetryIt's Greek. One of the "fruits of the spirit," which is just what we call virtues Christians oughta live by, is translated as "faith" in English. It means to be convinced by God of His existence. It requires a lot of hard work and paying attention...
