Hopeful

When I was young, did I even listen to me?
Sometimes I heard and sometimes I listened to some, and sometimes to me.
I heard and tucked far back, because it hurt to listen, to hear.
And now in the stillness of the nights, I listen and observe.
The words are soft, and the silent movements fill the words in greater ways.
They shuffle in some days, and I see so many words in their eyes.
The words fall from my pens, and the letters seem to be to me,
or written to someone who once was me.
Who is there left to read these words today?
Do they care?
Do I care today?
I do care, and I write these words for me and for my sons.
And for sons and daughters I know, but miss most days.
Where are they today?
The words press on me in these letters–letters among friends–
and I listen to me and am surprised at what I hear today.

He said, “listen to me. I give you the field and the cave that is in it.”
In the presence of my people, I bury my dead.

What if they do not listen to me and do not believe me?
Until now you have not listened, but you listen now.
Joshua did say, “Come here and listen to the Words of the Lord.”
And I listen.
I lie awake and I listen to the words that I had not written and now will write.
“You warned them in order to turn them back to your law, but they became arrogant and disobeyed your commands. They sinned against your ordinances, of which you said,
‘The person who obeys them will live by them.’ Stubbornly they turned their backs on you, became stiff-necked and refused to listen.
I love to listen to Nehemiah in these years where I am now.
When I listen, am I best when I am silent?
Listen to me, for what I say is trustworthy.
Dare I believe it?

I listen to myself and I listen for the Words that I seek.
I am no more alone.
I read my words and I listen.