Backpack
Tom Soma
I often carry a backpack.
Like many of my belongings,
it’s a present from friends,
who I remember fondly
each time I don it.
Inside, there’s a Swiss Army knife—
the gift of another friend
whose recollection evokes a similar smile.
I usually bring water,
and enough food to tide me until the next meal.
Invariably, the load lightens as I go,
and I always have room
for any little gems I find…
I sometimes think of the figurative load
we tend to lug around—
the one full of all the woes and worries
we’ve accumulated over days, weeks, months, and years.
It holds nothing by way of nourishment
and little space for unexpected treasures.
How heavy is that burden?
Can we learn to let go?
Is it possible to focus
so intently and intentionally on the now
(where the weight of both past and future disappear)
that we abide in the eternal present?
Perhaps that’s the place
God carries us…
(For Will Conwell)
Backpack at Bryce Canyon National Park.