Honey From The Rock

Unaware, I came early to the glory porch.
Crepe myrtle, fucsia-headed, mopping
The fence, and the hummer
Darting, sipping at the sugar water spout.
Still,
Breathless with humidity and
Impending Blessing.
The Word spoke with a smile, and grace
Broke over my head:
“With honey from the rock I would satisfy you.”
Today! Yes, today, He had this waiting for me.
He laughed aloud at my gasp.
Only He could orchestrate the
Appointed day for
Summer reunions, old friends,
Long calendared,
To fall on the eve of
Honey promised
To the holy in
My morning reading.
~
I grew up on
Honey Rock Farm.
Had the man who built that brown frame home,
Who planted Sweet Olive near the back deck, and
Tucked it all up next to an oak-ringed field,
And named it Honey Rock,
Had he feasted on an impossible honey
That came, how on earth, from a rock?
Had Honey Rock come from his awe of a
Cleft in a Rock pouring clover’s wine,
Sweet and fine?
And when life in those walls had a rock’s hard edge,
When sorrow and worry
Fell like a stone on the heart,
Was there nectar to be sipped?
And could he have ever guessed how
That farm’s name would bring
Back-porch awe
Years and miles away,
Its syrup just now being sampled on the tongue?
Yes, and yes!
~
Psalm 81: 16

        
Allison Sieg, Paulette DuBose, Leslie Smith Milam – July 18, 2019

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Physics and Prophets

 

What is a prophet, except one who
Simply
Believes
The Word of old, a seer –
Not of the future, but of the past –
Who sees the Word long-written
As truer than the matter
His hand can touch.
Walking on the living Word,
Without deviation, he finds
On that slim line
All of Physics in a child’s grasp,
And his own heart’s Physician
Bending near.
~
meditations on Psalm 119

The Gentle Now

This morning’s
Back porch prayer
Is a sigh –
Not a sad sigh,
Or a happy sigh,
But a sigh sigh,

A wordless prayer to
The One Who Hears,
Agreeing to wait.

Perhaps, He suggests,
There is more joy here,
More sigh solace,
In dove woes and
Tin roof rain,

In sugared flow of life beneath
What you can see,

Than in the triumph of
Your hopes.

Perhaps you already have
What you are waiting for.
~
His gentleness owns me whole.

 

 

Darkness Among The Dogwood

 

Mourning dove on a front porch,
Says with her eyes,
Her implacable, light-ringed eyes,

Yes, I made a mess
Building this nest.
But
The pangs were upon me, and

My nest-mess is the herald
Of Easter,
Of passion and pain.
In a corner of the cornice,
I hide my life,
Against the roaring of the foe,
Who stalks like a blight,
A darkness among dogwood,
A hatred complete.

This piercing is a deep breath
Inhaled for the victory shout.

I am the covering;
I will die for life.

~

Gentle Handsmith

 

Photo by Abigail Grey

In the making,
Bent, intent,
Joyfully toward
Communion
You loved us into being
With Your hands.

In the breathing, did You
Hold us gently,
Tip our heads back,
And impart Your
Waking grace of life enough
For us to see You and
Love you back?
For why else do we breathe?

In the molding, are Your
Father-hands fixed firm as
Unshakable mountains? Are they
Givers of thorn and rock, of
Steep and lonely crawls
Through tangled brakes?

And are they, too, the hands that
Part the twisted limbs and
Mark the arrowed way, and
Point the summit’s glory?
And do they, the very hands that
Created mine,
Now take tender hold so we can
Climb together?

In the saving,
Your hands are marked with
Justice and Mercy,
And I am twice Yours,
Made and remade
By the gentlest of
Handsmiths.

~
Psalm 119: 73 – 80

New York, Day Four: Bigger Things

Ichabod’s woods are indeed
Haunted.
He was right, though ridiculous,
To jump at every eddy.
Haints and witches abandon a
Gorse-grown stoney field
And melt back in to old, old
Woods,
To titter at our cluelessness.
On a wet stone we stand,
Once a top step.
Who stood on that stone,
Home and
Relieved at road’s end?
The almost-home stone.
The Woman’s respite stone,
Work half done, her eyes
Drank in the pond downhill,
Thistles and thorns and damp.
She saw the bigger things.