by Amy Beth Acker
YET STILL REACHING
I don’t know where my father went when he died
or where he is now.
But I know the sound of the late-November wind
bellowing hymns in my right ear,
and lifting tangling hair
in fervent, undulating mirth.
And I know how I feel when I look up
and see the brawny, stalwart oak
stripped bare, yet still
reaching heavenward,
branches waving around
like the arms of a born-again proselyte,
worshipping his maker in ecstatic,
unrelenting prayer.
AMY BETH ACKER
Amy Beth Acker is a psychotherapist, wife, and mother living in New Jersey. After years of writing nonfiction, she is returning to her first love of poetry and embracing its place in her Christian faith. Poetry for her is an altar of devotion and surrender and a medium for loving Christ and His people. Her work explores identity, revelation, and transformation.