Things happen when the truth gets too close to the surface. People grow more defensive. For instance, last night the neighbors lit so many candles against the coming storm that their house burned to the ground.
Do-over day.
Some of the children have chosen to fly too close to the sun, and their tender wings are undone, dripping wax down their arms, but maybe it’s worth it for that kind of light, that kind of spectacle, that kind of end.
Do-over day.
Behold! That which is old has birthed something new, And that which was new has now grown old. If you hold love too close to your heart it will explode from all that pressure. Let it go. It will grow or perish all on its own.
Do-over day.
You know this by the smell of ground coffee and offerings burnt to perfection, and syrup sweet and sticky, the pitcher too close to the edge. If it falls, it will shatter, and you will be tempted to say I told you so.
Do-over day.
This is the time to go back to bed, cover your head, and resolve to kick the bejesus out of anyone who tries to get too close while you regroup in the primordial soup where you began. You speak softly to your bent reflection but she’s asleep.
When your heart is on fire smoke gets in your eyes
Death rolls in, a thousand acres, flaming, thick smoke drifting south. We are blinded by the slow burn of a million lies. Nothing trickles down.
The poor belong among us.
And we are among ourselves on a finite planet on an infinite journey with a wee small chance of getting it right. Love is right. Violence is not.
The greater good is an apple tree the voles left alone because we pulled the mulch away from the trunk. Sometimes, winter should not be diminished.
What comes to everyone over time are thirteen birds, four horsemen, and an appetite for sweets and salt. The indulgences and the seven deadly sins are always calling. Try not to answer.
Stare down, instead and watch where you place each foot. Wish each other well. We are stardust and ashes, and we neither live nor die without fire.
The properties of light are complex, like the bones in your feet. All streams flow to the sea, so the wise ones grow more secretive. Discreet. They disguise the halting steps, callouses, and short, distorted dreams.
It takes a practiced eye to spot the game and take aim. The cleanest shot is often a long line of honking geese, gliding unaware of their bodies as sustenance or warmth. Long necks slice thin air, innocent. Provocative.
Is the twinkle in God’s eye First Light? Does the venom of the snake create the ache that comes from walking home? I mean the long ways home, the ways of those beloved or betrayed, afraid to be together, afraid to be alone.
First rights of refusal come with dawn, but the last rights of twilight are bereft. The fall of night allows us to exchange the little we have left, and our eyes adjust so few of us plummet to sure death. Just yet.
The light you see at midnight has traveled a long time. Its name is love, its only crime, refusing to be known. So beautiful, the feet of those who bring good news, who bring the light.
Goose down fills our rainbow-colored coats, and our lamps are thus defiled with scented oil. Winter has arrived across our shoulders. We’re blinded by the light across the snow, but the demons in our feet are bound by joy.
So do not be afraid, you weary hobos. Our blessings are a song with bitter words. We’re nourished by the plants we thought were weeds. Oh, may our days be long, our feet be strong upon this land. This day. This light. These feet.
There are two granny smith apples in the basket, slightly bruised and aging out.
The thought of eating one sets my teeth on edge. I don’t know why I buy them.
It’s a repeating pattern with me and fruit. I have unfettered access
and there’s room in my cart, but is that reason enough?
I sit with the ethereal miracle of vibrant green, tangerine, and sweet potato
in the loosely woven wicker that holds things together for now.
Minutes and hours fall from the heavy sky. I keep watch,
and in my own way, I pray.
There’s tea steeping and a bag of chips open in case God comes by.
She likes the salt. I like the company. I try to be accepting,
not greedy, not demanding, not intrusive, not filled
with expectations. Just quiet and receptive.
But it sucks. It’s harder than winter.
The God small in each of us is to blame for tart apples and the long seasons
of discontent. We are unskilled at listening, even less skilled at loving.
I hear God in the hallway, dragging something behind her walker.
It must be laundry day.
Well, I can’t wait forever. I have errands and obligations.
I understand how the self-important God of billions
might ignore me now and then, but the laundry lady?
When God embodies thus, the roles reverse.
She’ll ask me for quarters and for help
folding her flannel sheets.
Short visits with an honest God 