Empty Tent

Thinking of Joy. How hard to bear that name, in the midst of sadness. Perhaps the way it was hard for Abraham (Hebrew: Av-ra-ham) to bear the name Av, meaning father, for all those years when his tent was empty of childish laughter.

Thinking of Joy, in her sorrow.

And asking You to hold her close, near Your own heart that knows well the tragedy of losing a Son... knows well the empty tent... the silenced laughter.

Thinking of Joy.

Thinking of You.

Alteration Found

Let me now admit that the marriage of two minds
came without impediment, much. Who knows
exactly why it was such, except that the neurons
seemed to know exactly where they wanted

to go, past stars and tempests. Beyond brief
hours and weeks, until by now there is little
relief from the dendritic march. I cannot, want not
to roll up the surprising sacred pathways,

retrace, erase this hopeless tangle,
these rivulet reaches of love.


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Anchor

Water plays at my edges, laps, beckons. I am free. I am really free.

Wind nudges from the side, the back, sets me rocking, floating under a blue sky. I feel at ease. The sun melts my cares away.

Still, there is just now need for anchor. A place set in time, in space. A particular sandbar I want to explore. Where I'll leave my mark no matter how temporary— by building sand castles, digging trenches, setting a leaf flag to fly on a stick. And it will leave its mark on me, as I gather wet sand and pile it on my legs, my arms, to slough off even more cares of the day.

Will you, will you be my Anchor, Dear One? Enable me to play, even as I drift around the point, the weight, the center that is You? Will you, will you be my Anchor?

Hand

Sitting here, looking out at the sheer grey, cream cliffs of the canyon, I suddenly understand. Watching the vultures circle, black, wheeling and crying... the hummingbirds flitting and veering off in tandem, two so close, shadowing one another down towards the Frio River, I feel Your hand.

Your hand, upon my back. Tracing the hollow from tender neck to firmer base of spine. Your hand beneath my chin. Down my arms. Across my heart. With this roomful of voices, I sing the Psalm and Your own voice echoes, I put my hand on you. Then I remember this from a poet's pen, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem.

Sitting here, looking out at the sheer grey, cream cliffs of the canyon, I become the bird in Your hand, a poem moving across the sky... lines without end, grace unfurled, released upon the clouds.