I Imagine

In these darkening days I am reading some of my older poetry that doesn't mention fear, and trembles with imagination and possibility.

God, I imagine, makes himself at home.
Good at subterfuge
he settles himself in the living room,
puts his feet up.

And then waiting
until you are nearer to home,
switches the kettle on,
so that you find it still warm,

and the cat alone,
purring upon the sofa,
the curtains open
to a dying evening sun.

And you consider then,
how you must have left the cat in,
rushing for work
in the cold, dark of morning.

And how the house feels warm,
a degree or two more
than you might think
for the cold front and the fire unlit.

But God, I imagine, is in the shadow
cast by lamplight upon the wall.
Sees you reading at the table,
scanning your phone.

Watches you cupping your cheek,
propping your chin in your palm,
closing your eyes,
listening to a song of your remembering.

Sees, in the tightness of your eyelids
and the almost imperceptible frown,
the loneliness as a weight borne,
carried out of doors, brought home.

And God, I imagine, longs to hold you,
soothe,
as cool pressed sheets slipped into at end of day,
your aches.

Yes, God, who is so good at subterfuge,
is in your bed,
waiting—
has been waiting all of these years.

Yes, God I imagine,
is waiting to help you conceive something,
and imbue your dreams with imaginings.
Bring you like a child

believing
into the possibility of a new day.
Yes, that God is in the corner, I can almost see,
almost imagine,

or it might just be a trick of the sun’s light—
God there,
drinking tea.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry

Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

Wait Without Hope
By: T.S. Eliot

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope

For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,

For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith

But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.

Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:

So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.

The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,

The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy

Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony

Of death and birth.