Sabbath on the Page, Winter {a #poem}

What can you hear in a 
       winter sky? Trees
       sleeping, sap coursing
       slowly stopped by 
       these northern climes and
       their accompanying chill.
The sound of sunlight, settled
       like a theater’s best ending,
       shadowplay kept for
       juncos and chickadees.
Gray like warm flannel on a 
       winter’s night by the
       fire, celestial feathers
       cover like a goose’s wing
       over her chicks.

I tune my pencil, painting
       this poem of treesound, cloudstill
       and year’s end, listening
       for tomorrow’s song.

The Word

Son, ferried within water, the womb
        of his mother. She, comforted
        on the back of a donkey,
        led at the hand by a hopeful man,
        father, to the House of Bread.

Seer, sounding words that seared the 
         hearts of those who heard, time
         in the temple as He lives into His
         name, declarations undoing the 
         calm, intentional unsettling.

Sovereign, carried as costly cargo

         atop a beast of burden
         led among shouts, disciples 
         offering praises as He entered
         the city, Abode of Peace, and
         exited, a

Saviour, ascending the hill, neither

         ferried nor carried, but sent
         to be buried with threats and 
         words sending Him to the
         grave where he stayed, quietly
         undoing death, then moved
         this time alone.

Love led him out on his own

         two feet, called forth by the
         Father, leading Him into the
         world, fleshing the Word,
         leading the Way.

Keeping Watch

I flatten myself carpetside,
legs parallel as the lines of a crosswalk,
arms a perpendicular “T”
to my torso, aching as they
stretch (or do they stretch
and therefore ache?) Open-bodied
stance releases all weight of this weary week.
White-flagging my way to the floor
a wide space spans my once-tight
palms, now held by an invisible
silken thread index to index.
Sprung free from the web of close-in
clamoring that’s cluttered my days,
revelation arrives via the limbs.
My body remembers a vast freedom,
the lull and lilt of quiet, room to roam.
Bones at rest, eyes shuttered, the inky view
messaging my brain. Sometimes I don’t
know what I don’t know, how tightly
I’m wound until I’m undone. I want to
live undone.

When Trees Speak {a #poem}

Autumn morning, my eyes trained
through windows to the
shadow show on tree trunks,
crayon box colors of Fall
falling through space from now
visible branches.
Creator comes to mind, how He
carries us, colors us, covers us
with His power, the Tree the
strength, raising us Heavenward.

Sap is invisible, pulsing like a
sticky river, nourishment in its wake.
All I see is cottonwood, maple, and rarely
wonder at their strength, never
stop to remark, “would you
look at the energy feeding those trees!?”
Likewise we fuss and worry
that God may not be at work
while we grow our leaf-filled days,
falling we think and wonder
‘where is He? why isn’t He
doing something?’
And all the time His constant
reliable reach pushes up and
out, earthborne sap that cannot
be stopped, no matter how our
lives fall out.

For Friends Too Many to Name

Years and miles evaporate

like the season’s new-birthed fog,

leaving the strong, bright gleam of

friendship lighthouse true.

Holding true like the trees weathered

through decades of sun as we

weathered our own wearying

waves of life, lapping at the edge

of our friendship, threatening

to erode the years of tears

and laughter, the space and distance

breakers in between.

In between we hold on, reach

out past the yesterdays touching this

day as we raise high our glasses

crystal etching the air, the glittering sound

noting the miracle we are still here.

(you can read more of my poetry Here on my poetry blog.)

~~~~~~~~

Culling through several decades of cards and letters has put me in a pensive-yet-thankful mood; thankful for lifelong friends from the beginning of time. This poem is for all of them; they know who they are.

Gossamer Faith

 

Sir spider suspended,

still

but for the invisible

jarring of his aerial

abode.

Does it frighten him

to be held by

strength he cannot see,

to scuttle across the

sky, limb to leaf

knowing the opposite

anchored

end could detach in a blink?

Still he spins in space,

hovers across my path

while I dodge and duck

and pray, Dear God to have 

                         faith of a spider.