In my mind there is a population of squirrels
in a field of doubt, each one a question
about You. They are not pretty squirrels.
They are mangy, trembling things with teeth.
They are rummaging in the grass and darting
up and down the trees, gnawing and twitching.
But when they feel the wind of Your passing,
they freeze where they are and lean back on their haunches,
hands folded in front, asking forgiveness.
They become so beautiful I forget they’re mine.
“A Population of Squirrels” is reprinted (with a different title) from Weak Devotions (Wipf & Stock, 2011) by permission of the author.