The Container
The work, as yet undone, feels mountainous.
“But I’ve already done so much,” my protest.
There is still more to be done.
My marriage is a container
In which old things foment,
In which new things grow.
Dark soil — I once thought hid broken
And unlovely things — becomes a garden,
Rich and fertile, germinating life.
A mirror, reflecting back to me
All that is holy, and inviting transformation
Of all that is still wounded.
What blessed ground, what sacred space is this,
Where I meet God in the other;
Where I meet God within?
