Doubting Thomas                                                                                                          inspired by                                                                                          John Granville Gregory’s painting,                                                                                                     “Still Doubting”                                                                                         Who would we be                                                                                         if not Thomas and his friends,                                                                                         if not bent over                                                                                         with the wonder of doubt                                                                                         looking for the why                                                                                         in the how of pain, now?                                                                                         Even Argos, so faithful                                                                                         to his master, had to smell                                                                                         his skin to know                                                                                         he had returned in rags,                                                                                         so why would we not                                                                                         need to see where pain                                                                                         moved in to hurt and kill                                                                                         before we knew death could not                                                                                         in its devastation destroy                                                                                         what doubt searches to find?                                                                                         We praise the child                                                                                         inquisitive, question ripe,                                                                                         weighted with fearless lightness,                                                                                         wanting what winning                                                                                         or losing cannot catch:                                                                                         the light a butterfly wings                                                                                         on its way to the song.                                                                                         If we felt no doubt                                                                                         how could we have faith,                                                                                         being then as angels are,                                                                                         not a little less than they                                                                                         who cannot doubt,                                                                                         who need not put on glasses                                                                                         as we Thomases to see?                                                                                         Some try to say                                                                                         faith is like the field                                                                                         we see at dusk or dawn                                                                                         shimmed with sun                                                                                         though brightness alone                                                                                         prevents our eyes,                                                                                         purblind Peters making;                                                                                         the mind of faith                                                                                         (like its very heart)                                                                                         does not its spirit deny                                                                                         any more than gravity space,                                                                                          and so the field at noon                                                                                          revealing the hare’s blasted fur                                                                                          after the hawk has flown                                                                                          is too no less than                                                                                          the hart licked stream running                                                                                          through cool grasses flowing.                                                                                                                       John Kryder Poems