God Bless The Ice

Old Glory froze last night
In a crumpled swath, and now
Lumbers solid, like a beast of burden,
Against the smilaxed porch roof
In Alabama’s (sort of) icy, windy, freezy,
School-cancelling apocalypse.

And, oh, therein, is that heavenly lull,
That sweet second breakfast of
The bread of the Word.
The Word, unleashed from imperatives and carlines,
Says – and do I hear this? –
“For God so loved,
For God so loved,
For God so loved!”

God bless the ice that stilled the world,
So I can hear that God so loved!
~
Meditation on John 3:16

Born Hungry

Baby came in a shocking rush,
Her first cry turned her pink.
Mama, there’s no going back,
Easy days are done.
Hold her warm and tight for now,
She’s born and hungry.

Kay hit Presidential,
Every single year.
She hung forever from the bar,
Chin two inches high.
The others felt a brand new pain,
An ache called
Playground hungry.

Della’s daddy folded on a
Hot September day.
The sky hung low, and
Earth, it cracked.
And Della fell inside,
Where she was rocked,
Hungry.

Hunger in the soul, hunger in the hands,
We’re all born in a hungry wind
Like flames upon the land.

“If Becky wore a gunnysack,
She’d make a magazine.”
Perfection looked so blessed,
And the beach trip seemed so grand;
But he never knew her by her name,
He was blind and hungry.

Blessed are the hungry, every hunger fed,
Fainting for the cold, cold water,
Reaching for the bread.

Bonnie threw the grief book
Across the empty room, hit the wall
Of a down-sized home,
He planned, but never saw.
Now every day the sun comes up
On Bonnie’s broken dream, and she’s
Born hungry.

There’s a place I’m sitting down,
A day the meal is set,
And all my hungers all my life,
In bread and wine are met.
I’ve been fainting for the cold, cold water,
Looking for the bread,
A fountain of the blessed water,
Hands that break the bread.
~
Meditation on Matthew 5: 6

A Carnivore Moment In The Garden

Bamboo bends with the breeze,
Leaves playing lightly as
A fiddle player’s fret hand.
White cat on the fence waits
Bloodthirsty over the burn pile, for a
Field mouse foraging
Under the drying stalks of
Fool’s paradise.
White cat, of
Feral face,
And dead-heart eyes,
Detaches.
Solly high at the feeder, Lip
Laired and dreaming,
White cat
Muscle-stalks away, lithey and
Oiled. Mouse sleeps the sleep of
The paroled;
Bamboo bends.

Herbivores of the Garden Testify

Lippity Hop nips his morning greens,
Ears tall and twitching at supple alert.
To Lippity, a leaf is fare of the gods of
Small creatures.
But Lip was littered boding that he, himself,
Is someone else’s leaf.
Not sure why. It’s confusing,
But there it is.
‘I, Lip, am someone’s leaf.’

Hence the living ears.

Hasn’t made him a cynic, though.
He remains impossibly placid.
Doubt, certainly,
But with benefit-of-the.

Only the back half of Lippity hops.
On a low leaf-hunt,
His forearms reach forth, first left and then right,
Then his rounded back end joins in a concerted
Heave and ho.

Lip’s ears don’t twitch the slightest
When Solomon strafes by, cutting the air.
Not friends, but fellow leaf and sap people.

His ears don’t configure at all
Toward Sir Charles of the Powerline
When Chuck and his shrew scrap
Over nut-gathering,
All-nighters with the guys – it’s the pressure.

Lip knows his fellows.

He does go brown-gray motionless,
At the juttering growl of a jake brake
On I-65.
Hits him in the solar plexus,
Because

Even he has eternity in his bones.

Solomon Hovertail: Life of a Warrior

Solomon Hovertail,
I’ve watched you all summer,
Perplexed at the warrior
Life of a hummer.

Solomon Hovertail,
Looking for grace,
Fights with the air
Just to occupy space.

Solomon Hovertail,
Dines on the wing,
His brother won’t countenance
Solomon king.

Even when brother
Isn’t close by,
Solly’s alert,
As a Cold War spy.

In blood, the brothers
Have sworn to a treaty,
“I’ll die before letting
You eat at the feeder.”

Hot Attic Dry

This deep in August,
Cicadas go long,
Run the length of the field
With their each-other song.

Zinnias on stalks,
With defeat in their eye,
Brown upward in place
Going hot-attic dry.

The hawk, he is hungry;
The squirrel hops it nimble
Down his power line highway,
A risk, a life-gamble.

Only the butterflies
Haven’t a care.
Their wings drink abundance
From oven-hot air.

Dew On The Screen

Dew pearls on the screen,
Heaven’s tears, call me to
Repent, not to love
Misery and verdict deserved,
But because
After tears,
Through tears,
Are the Arms!
Our flesh is cherished,
Caressed, by
The Hands that scooped up
Earth and impregnated it
With Himself.
Creation and incarnation
Are our sweet flesh, ripe peaches,
Redeemed.
August-morning sun burns dawn mist
Away, and dew on the screen
Parches within,
Silently, invisibly,
Lost in His hug.
~
Matthew 5: 4