When it becomes warmer
we will fish by the sea,
and watch Pisces rise
from behind our wanderings.
The waves will quiet under
the Pelicans salty breath
and sand castles will give way to
We will watch it grow darker
until the sun fades below
a weathered pier,
and appear the light of men.
Not a scholars game,
not a prophets name,
only God and I and You:
Six quiet feet marching
as meek soldiers
toward the next continent.
You have taught me hard how to hold on to thistles
while holding the wheat,
the art of not losing the crop
just to soothe the long ache that the thistle brings as it bites and burrows beneath my skin.
How you have become the very
thing that I must always lay down,
so that my arms can carry more thistle, pick up the plow, blister my hands, work the soil for the honey golden wheat.
You will not see my labors
here but you know them.
I know some of your tears.
I have bled some of your sweat,
and the rain will not wash it away.
What a wide wide field,
far reaching from East to West.
And the sun is still noon high.
I don’t know if I will
see the honey in your eye
as sun sets and rest comes
over this land.
After harvest, the table of eucharisteo will be large enough for all of us.
I will give thanks for you there in that farmhouse without walls as I do in the hot and toiling field.
I will give thanks for your bowed head and heart and blistered hands.
We will give thanks for the cool breeze that finally plays upon our necks as we laugh together again.
a black powdery or flaky substance consisting largely of amorphous carbon, produced by the incomplete burning of organic matter.
Black soot covers my hands.
Proof that I dance with fire
without being devoured.
I rub my hands together,
watch as the black turns to gray.
Flame becomes a fierce comfort,
forcing the stains on my heart
and hands to be forgotten.
I think of Moses and the burning bush as I remove my boots and
feel the warm floor beneath my bare feet.
I did not expect to stand on
Holy ground today.
I never expect it.
But God is always there,
in the fire,
in the lines that draw my
hands into working hands,
In the heartbeat beneath my stains.
He is here in the provision of warmth and sacrifice,
creating a place for me
to dance barefooted and holy
on the ground beneath my feet.
Because the piano and her voice are liquid:
One of life’s theme songs for me! Enjoy smiling:
I know its Wednesday, but i am a night shifter and my days are all mixed up. props for trying, right? now, put your headphones on. you have to hear the cello like that. just listen all the way through or you will miss out.
I remember when your mother braided my tangled hair.
I wanted my hair to look just like yours,
like golden hay from the summer field.
The same hay that I watched your little horse chew on endlessly by the pond.
I know that your mother tried her best to make my hair look like a loved bird nest.
But I was not her child.
The love did not pour out upon my head and I could feel her distance as she wished that my hair were cleaner.
These days I find myself searching for the heads of motherless children.
I will braid their hair like summer hay.
And pray that Love anoints those heads.
My wrinkled skin will still feel my youth
My fading my mind will always
wander back to our magical corridors.
I cannot make the rain come or go,
nor can I make you stay or leave.
So I embrace it all.
The aging, the losing,
the battle of wills.
my flag is yours.
Keep peace in prayer, friend.
The young girl will be old one
day, keeping you in hers.