A short post to say I’ve moved to shortandsweetwriting.wordpress.com. See you over there!
If you drew
how would she look?
Would she be beautiful and crowned? Red lips and rosy cheeks, white skin and jeweled hands? – a princess of the realm?
Would she be scowling, furious and militant, with swords upon her belt and knives inside her shoes?
Would she shake the earth
as awesome as an army with its banners?
Or does she lie jellied, purple-bloody underfoot?
Would she look gently?
Would she look sternly?
Would she look at You – squarely –
Or would she look at Them?
Does she wear your collar round her neck,
does she play fetch
and come to heel
Would you run
Or would you throw
up your hands
against her blaze
If you had x-ray eyes
you might observe in me
the splatter of a thousand hours of wrested sleep,
the rags of torn-up peace.
You might see around my head a ring of eager flies
allured by decay,
like the buzzing halo of some strange ancient saint.
So much of who I was – before –
I’ve folded up and filed away.
Sometimes – opening a long-forgotten drawer – I find myself there, shelved, sleeping,
and I gaze with wonder – and the faintest stir
Do you ever wonder what it would be like
to hear yourself?
To befriend the outcast and the lowly requires this:
to first believe they are infinitely valuable.
Many of us – it seems –
(I wonder why)
Washing feet stained with dirt and sticky with muck
A mother’s life
A neighbor’s life
A Savior’s life.
a word that sends us running, as if from
I have spread myself like a net to catch beautiful things.
A severe and difficult endeavor.
Days long ago I wrestled with
Stormed his walls and claimed his ear.
Today, I fidgeted, and watched my feet, and stammered a triviality.
How shy of you I am,
how anxiously I tiptoe now
going past your door,
that You might hear me.
The problems of nations
are so interesting,
so easy to understand.
Is that too much to ask?”
Can you make peace with that?”
“Mama” – she said to me,
tilted her spoon like a silver wand –
“A butterfly came to our house.”
We wore the wind like a second skin
In the light of a March afternoon,
We stepped on the petals that dropped as we went,
And walked like brides in the spring.
It has taken me years to befriend the beach,
To believe in the warmth of sand and of light,
As a child,
Only the alien
of the unfriending sea.
As a parent I have learned –
Necessity is no respecter
When I was young,
so very young,
and I had all the world and time
for every venture,
for every fancy’s flight,
I never had enough.
I cram an hour in an instant,
And luxury is easily found.
White towels washed with lavender,
their clean and blossomy scent
carried me clear across the sea,
while my baby slept.
My back against cold cinderblock –
my six weeks’ babe in arms –
while through the triple window
over wood and waxy leaves
snow falls in slant surprising lines –
And from the big bright room outside,
weighted with a wonderful surprise:
“Thou son of David –
The virgin is with child.”
If stars leave trails
And fairies leave dust,
Then parents leave gold
In flecks –
Over their children’s hearts.
Till time, the great miner, proves