Half/Rest

 

It’s fantastic

how You meet me here

in my undoing—spit-shined

as if You don’t see it all.

 

Those smudges

have just made it worse—

I can see that now.

 

But, in my belly

there’s half a Santa Cruz peanut butter

and Southwest honey sandwich,

and half a glass of sun tea

fresh-bled in the Arizona sun.

 

Why “Arizona’s?”  It’s all of ours, really.

But it feels like it’s mine today.

 

Mr. Siamese watches with me

the half a dozen

Gambel’s quails marching around

pecking the yard

filling their already plump physiques—

turbans bouncing.

 

I smile and laugh, and it feels good,

since I’ve already cried three times today,

after a dry spell.

 

My son’s big warm hand,

the one I used to fit into mine,

rests for a moment on my shoulder

 

and I forget

all the other things

resting on me.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poem-a-Day 16:  write a “something fantastic” poem

 

“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”  Matthew 11:28

“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.”  1 Peter 5:7

 

Alone, But Not

 

There are no rules.

 

But there are,

aren’t there?

 

When nothing hurts worse

than breathing

in,

out,

in, out.

 

When my days are all

fogged-up

like the windows

of the pickup truck

I borrowed

to get to work

in the rain

 

when I decided I was going

to keep going.

 

To breathe

in,

out,

in, out.

 

And keep moving forward—

 

to pick up my son at daycare,

to make dinner,

and go to bed

 

saving my trips

to the abandoned churchyard

where I screamed

with only God listening

for later.

 

I know there are rules.

 

Remember

the magpies, the only things

in black and white,

where we searched

for the perfect fishing spot?

 

But it wasn’t perfect,

was it?

 

Fish were caught,

but every step was steep

on the way down,

on the way up.

One slip—

 

And now, how

we feel like fakes

 

after so many years

of victories

in our pockets,

or wearing them

like badges,

 

we’re shaken like game dice

held in a dixie cup

 

and rolled out,

in,

out,

in, out.

 

It’s a game of numbers,

they tell us,

and we keep moving forward,

 

as our old answers

seem puny

 

against this storm,

playing chicken

with the rules,

 

navigating

with no one listening

but God.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Late to Shay’s Word List Party at the Word Garden