Golden

We climb high— past sheer, chalky white rocks— brush by wild fennel and what look like dandelions on dianthus stems. The air is dry, feels thin as we ascend. Up and up and up, above the city and the blue, blue sea.

Sun is pure and hot, blazes, reflects from golden steeple that guides us ever upward. If heaven is somewhere, maybe it is here.

Hushed, we pass over an old wooden drawbridge, into the coolness of marble, red and ivory. Into the artistic order of fine mosaic on floor and wall and ceiling. Golden light from windows drifts silken over gold laid long ago, overhead— intricate worship of You, the finest Gold given to our poor hearts.

Finest gold that leaves us without words, mouths open, awed... tasting anise sweet, strong, wild.


Golden Ceiling in Marseilles' Notre Dame, by L.L. Barkat.

Morning

The raspberries are full and red, hung with
the coolness of last night's rain.

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.
His love endures forever.

Wet, the kale bows in long arcs, heavy
with golden fingers of seed pods.

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.
His love endures forever.

Zucchini puts forth yellow flowers, cucumber
does so too, turning water into flesh, green.

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.
His love endures forever.

Black-eyed susans and blueberries flank
the garden, pert, sun-hopeful.

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.
His love endures forever.

And the catbird, grey, presides over all,
considering what will make his breakfast.

Give thanks, give thanks.
To the Lord. For He is good.
Yellow-fluted, blue-fringed, red-fatted,
grey-arched, sprung with crystal upon
crystal, His Love. Endures.
Forever.

Touch

I think I know each line and curve of this neighborhood. Where the sidewalks end. Rosebushes beside wagon wheels, as they have been for years. The row of cedars. Square rocks like enormous buck teeth hanging over the roadside. Feathery Japanese split maples and a heart-leaf tree that shivers in the breeze.

Still.

This night, which would have been black by now just a few short months ago, is barely grey pearl, misty over the river. I run past the white ranch only to see in spring's new light... a garland tree. That's what I want to call this lovely sight. Flowers hang, clustered in feathery lengths 'midst tiny green leaves. Like bridal garlands I've seen at so many Indian weddings. Tokens of love draped over my path.

And.

Someone has planted posies. Yellow marigolds at the bare edge of a lawn.

I thought I knew each line and curve of this neighborhood. Each line and curve of You. My heart leaps up. You touch me. Unexpected. Delight.

Fragrant

In the dark, I run. Cares of the day run with me.

This hope. That dream. Worries. Regrets. Struggles. It is hard to see around some of these corners, hard to feel that things will open, shake, rattle, release, smooth, fall away, soar or settle. The darkness lacks definition, hides the way, makes me wonder.

But then. Then!

I descend, past the blue house, barely blue now in the shadows of night. And fragrance bursts like a river of invisible sweetness. Is it... Lily of the Valley? Lilac? Tiny irridescent white bells ringing assurance? Or lavender promise hanging like grape clusters just beyond my reach?

Cannot tell. Cannot know for sure. But I am surrounded, intoxicated beyond words. You are here, Sweet One, on this hill, in this dark, flooding my senses, my way.

Dry

The breeze is relatively warm tonight, dry. And the leaves, also dry, skitter along behind me. I turn, thinking surely something is there. Darkness covers their trail, but I hear the scratch, the raspy skid, in any case.

Around the corner, I come upon dry grasses that look like miniature bamboo. They wave at me, eye-level. And as they move, a sound like a lady's crinoline sifts into the night. A lady's crinoline, or a maraca filled with tiny beans by some child's hand.

There are branches everywhere, dry. Curved against the deep blue night. Their true shape visible, lovely. And beyond them the stars peek through, tiny lights in a mistless sky.

My heart fills with sudden praise. You are here. In this dry place.

Wild One

You are no shy Lover today. Tossing the maples, the grand old pine, like they were a scarf in Your hand, in some Bolero dance. You rush to the tops of the trees, shake them strong, say, "Look, just look at Me!"

The sun is a brilliant fire surging from Your fingertips, passion sparked, laughing, "Look, just look at Me!"

The snow is everywhere shining. Blinding. So slippery I can barely stand in your Presence. And yet I hear you crying, "Look, just look at Me!"

With slow steps, I take my sled and settle in to the side of this little woods, to watch You dance.

You are no shy Lover today. And I am looking, laughing! Admiring You, my Wild One. Shining, flipping your scarf to the wind.

Glory. Wild glory.

Revel

Somewhere along the page, Gardner said it: "...seems that only those works that represent radical departures gain attention, but...nothing is so boring as endless unalloyed novelty." (p.124, Changing Minds)

And suddenly I was off, reveling in You. My long loved Love. My God who's been with me all these years. You are not new. Ours is not a young love.

I went out into the darkness, into the blustery wind, reclined beneath the flailing pine tree. I traced your invisible form with my fingers, the arch of your holiness. I warmed my heart by familiar fires of your Spirit. Familiar like the scents that meet me when I open the door to my little Tudor. Familiar like the stars, the same Big Dipper drenching me with awe, the way it has since childhood. I opened my mouth as if to drink you. My long loved Love. You are not new. Ours is not a young love.

Come again, after all these years, let me revel in You.

Reeling

Running again. At night, again. Looking up at the stars, I see the "seven sisters". So mother used to call that smudge of a mini dipper that is just now fighting the city's ambient light.

And I get dizzy. Dizzy when I run this way... looking up. Breaks my stride. Makes me sway like a drunken man. In my delirium, I ponder... You.

How is it I can see you in less than a thousand points of light, here where the streetlamps are too insistent... and the sidewalks too broken...and someone has waited too long to push her leaves into the street, leaving the path moldering, dirt-strewn.

Nonetheless. I do. See. You. And I am dizzy. A drunken runner, swaying to a child's song. Twinkle, twinkle. I'm reeling under the stars.