Most of the time in the dry weather,
all it takes is a few scrapes
through the stiff brush bristles
of the boot cleaner mounted on an old slab
of two-by-eight to make the dirt and dust
and light crust of sand and dried horse manure
drop right off and be gone.

But on those rainy days
when the thick, sticky clay is ground and pounded 
into the treads of my heavy muck boots,
it takes a shooting stream of compressed water
piercing into the cleated corners
to pry out the mud and yuck
of the round pen.

Most of the time, when my walking in this world
has mostly been what it should have been,
it only takes a minute or two
to send the thoughts I shouldn’t have
flying on out and away,
just a bit of prayer, as it were,
to restore focus on the things that are above.

But on those days
when draping darkness clouds my thinking
and leaves my soul sinking and sliding
like hard-hooved feet on soft mud over frozen ground,
mucking and miring every corner of my heart,
and it seems that holiness can barely make a spark,
then, my friend, it takes something more, way more:

it takes the down on-my-knees,
begging You, please, O God of My Pain,
soul-sobbing, vein-throbbing,
gut-twisting, eye-misting,
of deep-aching contrition
and pride-breaking submission
to get my spirit clean.

Yeah, it takes that.
And then… Yeah, I’m good, again.


H. Arnett
3/10/2023