the passing of things

there’s no scab to be found hardening, covering
blood dried from the day’s healing. just
open infested sore. people bound with well
intentioned answers insist with unearned nobility
that this sinking sadness will pass. me, i’m not sure.
i can’t help thinking He got sick of us. He got fed
up with our self-imposed hassles so He took a long
deserved vacation on the coast. Sacrilegious!
or so they tell me to think such thoughts. but
sleep deprivation makes for long nights lost in
deepening darkness. so i strive for the light
which is closer to what i know and not what i fear.
what i possess somewhere under broken tissues
and torn fragments of skin is the knowledge
that waves ride on the breath of You, clouds
move at the playful twist of Your fingers,
like toddler’s toes playing in spilled paint
the sun sets and rises. i imagine You belch and
wind is created sending nature aghast with giggles.
You play with electricity like a puppy rolling tangled
with a cord. earth knows Your footsteps and responds
with the morning dew. yet despite all Your wondrous ways
You play with children giving them white dandelion dust to blow
like felt bubbles. and the hope i have through unearned
grace is that the answer is not found in pain passing like
gall stones or bell bottoms worn in faded pictures you look at
ten years down the road, but in knowing that nothing passes.
nothing passes by You that does not heal.