Lent — day twenty-six

Be still enough to see.
 – to let the wind of your wings cease
long enough to let the hiding creatures
peek their heads from earthen shelter,
where they watch and wait for the love
of your warm hand and shining face.
Run your fingers through the air you
breathe. Untangle it, and let it rest
where it falls. Know its simple ways,
its rich embrace. Breathe in quaking doubt
and life – it all goes down the same.
You’ll find sometimes dry earth
will satisfy, and “life itself is grace.”


Lent — day twenty-two

They’re looking for the gold in you,
panning all your streams.
They’re hoping what’s been told is true –
that silence rests in golden beams.
They’re sitting in the weight of you –
feeling it down deep.
Their fingers search for morning dew,
even as they’re fast asleep.
Their eyes won’t shut for anything.
They won’t stop gulping rain.
They’re waiting for a wedding ring
to hold them through the pain.
So come back to this waiting land,
come and sing your song;
their hands are stretched to find your hand,
hands only wait so long.

Lent — day twenty-one

I light a candle, whenever I can
to remember that you’re here.
Your spirit crashed-kissed
with fire. It’s consuming all
I think I need. Ashes feel
dry and something like ending,
but they are where you’ve burned
brightest. Glory and ashes,
that’s what we are,
that’s how we live and breathe.
So, I’ll embrace each part of that
if you’ll draw nearer to me.

Lent — day twenty

You will screw up. To think otherwise
is to believe a lie, fed everyday by the
marvelous, twitching steps you take
in what you hope is the right direction.
Never mind that you haven’t breathed
in a while. You walk with every muscle
taut as the rope you teeter across
in inches. One wrong twitch and
you tumble, free. And all will point,
collect their winnings from the bets
they took on you. Never mind that you
forgot where you’re going. Never mind
you forgot your own name. You’ll make it,
with utmost grace, to the end – and your scoffers,
will praise you with shame hung heads.
Never mind if you fell, you would finally fly,
like you do each night when you dream.
Never mind that your scoffers are all
taking bets on how beautiful your wings
will be.

Lent — day nineteen

Satisfied. Though the world toss-turned all through her stay,
though she watched, unable to bear, unable even to intercede –
she took in all, surrounded all, penetrates, and loves every torn,
asunder,  twisted, uncertain, shattered, lovely, true thing,
until she bids farewell. She gives way to the night and trusts
that surely she will return to all of this toss-turn world,
will greet it, and will have us to love again, with hazy sighs
and piercing cries, fiery compassion, unrelenting, gentle, true,
calling things that are not as if they were. She sees the better
story told. So, she can rest and come and go in beauty
and in subtle, unassuming cries of glory and surrender.
She rises, opens, begins; sets, closes, ends,
certain, honest, and satisfied.