I dropped the broom; bang, clatter, crash,
at the edge of my despair
unwilling to sweep it away
and pretend another day.
So there I sat with hands on lap
amidst a pile of dirt
mulling over possibilities
and the effort needed.
But I was tired, you know, that day
when dirt appeared alive
and mocked my willingness inside
to ignore its artful ways.
So I cried the tears of one endowed
with an immense pile of dirt
just there beyond the reach
of my strength of mind.
But, lo, the wind of trust rose up
like an angel flapping wings
and I thought of brooms and how they are
useless to believers.
To trust the process good or bad
like magic sweeps the dirt away
but when the pile’s beyond belief,
simply ask the angels!