Am I a writer of poetry attempting long forms
or am I a writer of broken prose
that tends toward poetic expression?
I am choosing to waste no time
attempting to categorize myself
as anything more than a pen in His hand.
I have run from the gifts He has given.
I have run into the gifts.
I have banged my head and stubbed my toes
and bear the scars and bruises.
At times I would prefer to paint
but He gives as He chooses
to suit His will.
I have run into the gifts
I have run from the gifts
fingers tender from the keyboard
too many pens rattling in my purse
He knows who He has called
what I cannot do, He can.
In that, I find my rest.