May 7th, Leschi
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Ready to Make Friends with Poetry? ⟶
Dust hovers unsettled in sunlight, threatening to land on patterned grains of tables at rest. I observe the suspension of noise, remember the activity: buzzing, rising, howling, softening. The children are gone. It is time to put things in order. Restack the books, ensconce the trinkets to their pride of place, lay out the careful…
I was thinking, Father, yesterday in worship, with my hands upraised in prayer and thanks, how like a container I’ve been this week. Empty, needing to be filled, a hollowed out space hollering for help. I’ve been stuck, stagnant, stewing by myself drowning in unmoving water. And you showed me, Lord, how like a…
I just saw three chickadees stun themselves, Mama Bird watching from the patio post, hopeful their wings and their wisdom would coincide with the air. They collided instead with the window I see through now, fateful glass a barrier to their flight and freedom impeding the discovery of their birdy selves as creatures made for…
I stray like string in the wind untethered from that tight spot at the bottom holding me in place. Anchored there tension provides strength for the tune to be played– a fiddler bows across the tautness and chords are plied, played as His fingers hold me in place. Snapped, tho’, the string aflutter, undone there…
Across the dining room chairs over the lamp and past the plants through the window, I spy silhouettes that awaken and dance like the pebbled stones in a child’s kaleidoscope, shape-shifting black against the not quite white night sky. Here the leaves move, there they bend and turn branches like sky-borne seaweed in an ocean…
If you give a writer a journal She’ll probably say “thank you” (exclamation point) And wonder where the nearest pen or pencil is. If she finds said pen, she’ll take to writing A es a pee. Once she starts writing there’s no telling When she’ll stop—why THINGS COULD HAPPEN. People would be…