What matters in the end
is not that you believe
but that you act.

I’ve seen such good people swallowed
by this, folks who thought
belief was enough to sustain them.

Gentle hands, clasped in prayer
with not a callus to be found
upon them; all that uplift

and not a thing on earth
reflected in line or scar
upon those perfect hands.

What matters in the end: 
did you get dirty before the dirt
came down upon you?

What matters in the middle
and not long after the beginning,
too: did you step to it

when challenged? Did you learn 
that prayer flows best
over skinned knuckles?

Or did you close out
in sad peace on the couch,
cold insomniac in shorts

with nothing on TV,
just your self-control
to hold you here:

you tell yourself
you just can’t be taken yet, 
you’ve been so good. But

what matters in the end
is a scratch in the dirt
you can call your work,

grime on the knee,
the shine off your shoes,
something dark under your nails.