Herbal Faith

The music from the nightclub spills through the window
As I lean back, cupping the mug of tea
That sends sheets of steam up wards to the ceiling
Like sheets dancing on the wash-line that is tied to the tree.

Where each morning mother goes out to hang the wash,
Her hard hands a perfect contrast to the white soft
Of the bed linens that dance with the wind,
That tremble and waft.

Surely this steam passes right through the ceiling
And goes straight to God and his endless love
that has continued through the wars,
the famines and desperation thereof.

Surely God Himself is here, perched beside me
On the leather of this old love seat,
Watching the people stumble out of the club,
Laughing and groping their way down the street.

I have no questions for Him,
And we are both content to sit in the dark
And listen to the music and the pounding beat.
Sipping our tea which is sugarless and stark.