A Sweet Longing

At the beautiful creek
which flows from the smooth,
straight cut angles of
The Place Under the Bridge
into the weathered rocks of
Time,
I am not there;
I am sitting on Jesus' knee,
still, quiet, content.
The cars passing by see
me sitting in the grass
among the wild flowers;
but I myself am not there.

In my own solitary room,
at 5:47 am,
I am not sitting in my pink bowl chair;
I am in Africa
smiling
holding the babies
that I have found
or maybe, they have found me.
They smile, laugh,
and I am overflowing with joy.

In the car, watching
the trees rush by
just beyond my window,
I am not there;
I am in the Amazon jungle,
breaking the chains of
injustice,
poverty.
I am making necklaces with
beads of sky, charms of silver
alongside Thai women
who have come from a
life of enslavement.
Now, they and I are equal.
We work
and are paid fairly.

It's not that I don't like
the creek,
my room,
the car.
But why can I not be there?