Manna

You put down your pen,
understanding that today there will be no manna,
that today your words are empty,
and while you have the correct number and pages,
enough to keep your brain from rotting,
there is no spirit there.

Once, you would have felt abandoned, empty,
discarded
and without worth.
You would worry that yesterday’s words
would be your last

to contain life.

Once, you would have surrendered,
crawled into your shell,
certain you had spent all you had to offer,
and slowly allowed yourself to die,
sure you had lost your value.

But that was before.

Before you understood the words were not yours,
before you understood your job was not to be the writer,
but simply to be open,
an imperfect scribe to God’s breath,
a spiritual discipline
not to be perfect, but simply prepared
and available and ready
for the manna
when it falls.

About this poem

The word inspired can be translated into “God Breathed”

Tom