A Sunday poem.
Wring the Changes
I have known the breathless feeling of a sponge that has been wrung
thoroughly and roughly above my life’s chipped sink,
squeezed to the point of tearing by the chapped hands of God
until my shape was nothing. Until I could not think.
I have known the way one squishes at the crushing of one’s foam,
have felt the curious balling of a thing without a spine.
But all of it led to a hope I do not hold alone:
that when my water’s all pressed out, I might soak in his wine.
Paul J. Pastor
Witnesses to Hope 