Out. In. 

Outside you hear geese
flying so low you hear the beat of their wings,
hear the differences in timbre
as they call to each other in their journey south.

It is barely light.
February cold creeps through the clapboard,
slow and insidious, bringing a chill
almost overcome by the fire downstairs.

You have spent too much of the night in your own mind,
wrestling with demons false and true,
those creatures that only visit
when you are alone and tired from the day’s battle,
when you are weak and worn.

They believe you are weak, those demons.
Sure of it as you bear your scars each day
and walk unarmed into battle,
aware of every weakness, every chink in your armor.

You breathe, exhaling deeply,
sending the dark into the morning light.
You breathe, inhaling
the God around you,

Out. In. A ritual that fills you with all you are not.
Out, In. A filling of strength, peace, and joy
so far beyond any you possess on your own.
Out. In. You breathe,
and the demons flee, flying south in search of new prey.

About this poem

My favorite phrase from the childhood song “Jesus Loves Me”?

“They are weak and he is strong.”.

Oh, and there are geese flying south these days. My house seems to be in their flight path this year. That’s where this poem started.

Tom