Blame it

This winter is almost done—
and I have not felt the struggle
to keep myself from the rail
or pull my arm from the handle.

Blame it on the machine
that I am still around.
It drips my caffeine down
to cool with a shot of milk.
I have decided to take inventory
of my blessings.
And this measurement begins with you
and ends with me.

I sat up all night,
memorizing every signal—
that God may be alive
and be speaking to my ear.
I love the thought of
a higher being’s talent,
floating from the dove
and out my sneer.

This winter, I have escaped—
and the summer is starting over.
I felt my spirit saved
in the scratching of a bristle,
carving out grooves through the gesso—
that summarize what God gave you
when I was nine.

Blame it on your faith
that I am less than perfect.
I cannot catch a break,
but I refuse to make mistakes.
I am higher than the faults
that hold us together;
And that is why I make
your blessing
a verdict.

written on 02/25/2010 by: Matt Kane