I am the dusty traveller,

the journey, the road,

the pothole and the hoof.

I am Balaam and the voice I hear

is my breathing creature

plodding on,

eating straw,

seeing angels.

“I’m sorry Father” I want to say

Forgive me that I ran away.

My belly shrank, I nearly died

And still I drag behind my soul

Heavy with pride.

And you, watching from afar

To see if I’d return again

From this old self-inflicted war.

Let your Kingdom come

Put rings upon these fingers

Let your Kingdom come

In feast and finery

Let your Kingdom come

And let me still remember

How you kiss my neck

How I fly free

Where every songbird bursts its cage

Every mustang roams the range

Stands wild upon a mustang’s stage

And eats no husk

But fresh green herb

Under the blanket of dusk.

beneath a grieving loam,

sat pondering its epitaph,

how to mark its passing,

how to make it feel like home.

Tomorrow I'll dig again,

and do the same thing with today

if God grants me my spade and strength.

And tomorrow will become just another place where I used to live.

Today, though, is like a small shy bird,

a fluttering sparrow

that might just come to me,

if I can learn to ask well.

And the question is,

What is the question?