In the "mean-time" time
when life is not always
what it seems nor is,
when what is, distant is
from ideals and time's ideals:
we trudge in the mud
from rains of tears
from heavened eyes,
falling from fallen clods
of fashioned dirt and clay.

Life is not all that we want
or dream.
Mud slows the pace of feet
and wheels.
We a-search flow'rs,
less thorns, yet find thistles of beauty.

It's perfection and right,
right now,
all heaven, now.
But Adam and Eve arise
each day,
mirrors we can't break
or broken, can't repair.
We try forgetting
but need rememb'ring,
for to do so might help
living in the mean-time,
in our muddied selves,
redeemed
and of earth,
now and forever,
Thank God-