I am at right angles
Too often
With too much

Fruits of the Spirit
Seem to rot
Before I share them

I can’t even forgive some people
Once
Much less seventy times seven

I am the fig tree
Cursed for barrenness
When the Christ wanted fruit

I am sleeping apostles
I am denying Peter
I am doubting Thomas
I am me

I travel my right angles
Looking for the hypotenuse
That will connect my wanderings
With faith’s straight line