I have filled all your feeders, and I’ve cleaned up your messes.
I’ve protected you from rats, cats, and this and thats!
You pleasure me as I view from my prized place, my all-seeing window, but . . .
the question would arise:
Why do you scatter when I open my door to you,
open my life to you, fill your spaces with warm words full of love and provision?
Why must I view through a double-pane? A double pain?
If I go out, you wait in the trees, holding aloof, half ignoring, wary,
willing to eat but not to come close,
willing to drink but not while I’m present—too much of me there, I suppose.
. . . I’m sorry, Lord, did You say something?