by Brian G. Daigle

​Broken stones on crooked roads 
Under feet with calloused toes,
Hold up brittle body and bones. 
Inside sits a heart of gold;
Atop, a cathedral of stone. 

No pot hole swallows.
No stumble thwarts. 
No ache inhibits the journeyman. 
Neither do storms rattle transcendent faith.

Clear skies do smother 
A memory full of “It will be well,” 
Engulfing a sun to orient eyes blazed. 

Lively songs in chorus round 
Companions ragged but true. 

“Rage or Sing,” the Muse once offered your plot.

by Brian G. Daigle

At the threshold I wait for thee,
              the one who is not surprised,
              the one who foresaw its scope and size,
              the one who placed it before my eyes.
 
At the threshold I look to thee,
              the one who neither trembles nor fears,
              the one who sees every drop of tear,
              the one toward whom my vessel steers.
 
At the threshold I worship thee,
              the one who is my saving door,
              the one who is my ever-filled store,
              the one who portal-cross did bore.
 
At the threshold I pray to thee,
              the one who opens heaven’s gates,
              the one who took on human state,
              the one whose blood does saturate.
 
At the threshold I sing to thee,
              the one whose song did precede,
              the one whose tune fills every need,
              the one who is our eternal creed.
 
Through the threshold I walk toward thee,
              the one who held the thresh for me.