A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I am surprised you found me

here; it is dark and dirty. I am

well hidden, damaged and red-handed.

You told me your love would pursue

me to the gates of hell, and although

I said I believed you, but my actions

said I didn’t. Still I run, still I hide,

still you are there, constant, 

with a patience I cannot fathom. 

Still you whisper my name, 

you draw me close and ask me

yet again

to trust you. You coax me

out of my damp cave, into green pastures

and we sit beneath the shade of a tree. 

Is this where I rest? You know me,

you know I do not know how. 

You know the fear, the anxiety,

they spur me on with a sense of urgency

and a continual pit of dread within

that I am a lost cause, that I will never

be enough, and it will all be my fault,

it will not be for lack of opportunity. 

And you laugh that gentle, tender, soft laugh

of practiced disbelief that belies 

a disappointment born of love,

as you shake your head, and repeat my name,

and all the other labels you choose for me:

mine, beloved, redeemed,

and you tell me again

there is no need for me

to run, to hide, to fear,

if I would but rest in trusting you.