The moon, it just sat there tonight,mostly eaten by the old yearand its shadows,the year to come like its bright skinshining, burning away the rest.They say it's God's fingernail,but that's only what we can see of it.In reality, the whole underbelly is bulgingwith lighton the other side of our atmosphere.Anyway, it couldn't be that only … Continue reading New Year
I'd hate to think that somedayI could be watching a soap operain a beach motelwhen,outside and across the street,there is a full-bellied moon risingover the crashing tideslike a great, golden peachin a storm-tossed orchard.I'd like to think that somedayI'll be like the man with the long camerawho'dsearched the Internet and watchedfrom his car for weeks,and … Continue reading I’d Hate to Think
Every word of yours proves true. So shore up my sides against it, lash me like water into it, cast me, body and soul, upon it, until a wet wind parts the mists, and I find myself beneath its steady, searching light. “The Scriptures in their own sphere are like God in the universe – … Continue reading Lighthouse
I saw you all honey-haired in the golden light of the cattle stall, like motes of lit dust in the world--- little, but alive with the breath of God Himself and watching the cow heave and steam and give her milk between your fingers, as your own mama had given hers to you, and as … Continue reading Dust Motes
Autumn came, at first, like a man too fierce to get old, huffing and fuming like his leaf blower, hurrying hot wind, unsettled as a hurricane in the trees until, one afternoon, the last leaf fell, was raked, put away, and he settled into something long, cold, and sweeter.
For Mr. Bob They said you could have flown that day and gone down with the plane that burned in the field behind the barn, smoking black above the Pennsylvania pines. Instead, you went down slow, stalling, but steady, and still checking your flight lists, making sure the hospice nurses were safe and buckled, the … Continue reading Flight 93
The kingdom of heaven is as near as the hand at the end of your arm. So turn the dough, stitch the wound, change the sheets, play the notes, stack the wood, sow the seeds and straighten the rocks along the wilderness road.
"Time to get up." His voice cut into my sleep like soft butter, a corner of my mattress dipping beneath him, a hand on my ankle, frost in the corners of the window, crumbs in the corners of my eyes, a pink sun kissing the bare treeline, he in a white dress shirt saying, "Little … Continue reading Talitha Cumi
We are like the children when they fell out of the wardrobe back into the dust of this universe where the fly buzzes in the window grate and the air of the attic is stale but freshened by a swift wind from the door and the cold that still clings to our clothes and we … Continue reading From What Country?
In response to my Papa Larry's poem: "Just One More Time" Remember what Eliot wrote, that “What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present” And so your “have-beens” of driftwood fires near the sea Are, dear Papa, my present. Might I remind you-- Time is like the … Continue reading Always Present
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