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.

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Back Porch Devotions in September

Wing-whir and squeak
Of the resident hummingbird.
Mr. with a band of white at neck and tail –
A collar and tennies. His four-spouted feeder,
He says,
Is three spouts too many.
Scritter and crunch of two squirrels.
Brothers. Frenemies.
Chasing each other for
Possession of one pecan among ten
Thousand, in figure eights around trunk
And limb-split. Siblings obviously.
Dove whoo. Shell pieces dead-fall
Onto the tin porch roof
As the siblings truce to tap open and eat
Pecan meat.
Silent things add their inhalations and
Exhalations to the glory chorus;
Butterflies catch the early sun-slant on orange
Wing and light on a taller zinnia.
Chipmunks hug the ground, never looking up,
Intent on the earth.
Silent, too, are birds in flight, a feather ruffle on landing.
But from their tree-y houses, though lip-less,
They opine with
Consonants and vowels:
Chee-chee
Screet-screet-screet
Kack-kack
Kitter-kitter-kitter
Caaaaw,
Answering one another
Impatiently, mothers with a work day ahead.
Cicadas trill on a sleepier key than they will
This evening. It’s early yet.
~

Freely Rejoicing In Your List – One Woman’s Journey

Home from Walmart
Laden and bagged.
Paper work I had
Asked Andrew to take to the
Church sat forgotten on the
Kitchen table.
Same instant, snap!
I realized I had
Forgotten to buy trash bags
He had asked for.
A wry little moment as forgettable
As the paper work and trash bags
Themselves. But, I thought:
‘Wait, this is deep!
His list was not my list,
And my list
Was not his.’ Couldn’t be.
Extrapolate.
Lists are the just the
Endnotes to the soul’s
Manifesto; they are as distant as
Capillaries from the heart, as
Chores thrice removed from
The great goal.
Revealing, though.
And we each possess our very own.
What a personal God we serve!
I don’t write your list or
Calibrate your
Passion.
Humbling, that. Instead,
Freely, I can
Rejoice in
Your list.
What peace will
Break out then!

Prayers On The Eve Of Hard Things

 

Lord, I call out to your steadfast love,
To the honor of your name,
To the might of your arm,
To the rebuke of your enemies,
To your love that leads through deserts,
Foes, floods.
I look to your face as you see my distress,
To your ear as you hear my cry,
To your heart as you remember your covenant,
To your arms as you enfold me in steadfast love,
To your skin, very skin, of compassion, of pity.
You, O Lord, are the Amen and the Holy, the
Holder of Tomorrow. In those same hands,
Cup my thankful praise of
Your goodness.
~