Stepping stones to You

Today my clouds are thin,
and graceful;
a delicate tracery of white
against a field of blue;
in perfect balance,
instead of overwhelming me
with feelings of remorse and shame
the way they sometimes
used to do
when pride, or joy
arose from deep within;
small volcanoes of pleasure
erupting and subsiding,
leaving behind islands of love
like stepping stones
to You.


* * *

Does God have bad days?

There's so much joy
in completion;
such delight,
when something's finished
and off your plate;
tied up and delivered
and somewhere close to perfect...

I wonder if God feels that way
at the end of each day --
all those tasks accomplished,
all those lives enriched,
all that beauty created...

and does God have bad days?
Days when everything goes wrong
and the sun seems permanently stuck
behind the clouds of failure and remorse;
days when it seems that no-one will ever
understand or appreciate
all God's hard work?


* * *

Somewhere on the edge

Such wild exuberance,
they said,
could never go
unpunished:
trim them down,
line them up
in tasteful rows;
order should be
the rule of the day.
But beauty and love
will always find
a place to bloom --
somewhere on the edge, perhaps;
where the wind is stronger,
the waves rougher
and the seeds can scatter freely.


* * *

Imagine ignition

Imagine
ignition:
the thrill of transition
from green and fertile calm;
the slow warming of yellow
spreading through your veins,
tickling at the edges;
the veins themselves
beginning to glow;
red fire
leaping to the surface;
the flush of excitement,
the blush of readiness,
the tearing fearful ache
of impending separation
from the Source,
the break,
and then the soaring,
lifted on the wings of air,
the gentle landing,
cushioned by your peers...


* * *

The texture of our being

Waves
like feathers:
this radiant wake
you leave behind
as you steam through existence,
joined by the black shadow
of your reflected self
while each
-- both shadow and wave --
reflects some aspect
of your essential being.
How much
of what we touch
is altered
simply by the texture
of our being?


* * *

Down the drain...

On those days
when I want to wash my hands
of the whole business,
remind me,
would you please,
of the shared and simple pleasures:
the scent of soap,
the warmth of water,
the play of light
on stainless steel,
the sway of the ferry floor
beneath my feet;
of our extraordinary good fortune
in being able
to wash our hands at all?


* * *

This green relationship

Here we are,
you and I,
entangled and enmeshed.
You provide the stage
while I provide the dance;
you the furrowed fields
and I the plants;
you the fabric of my days
while I sew in
the stars and stripes.
Together we become
a symbol of cooperation
yet still some part of me resists,
considers switching roles,
feels smaller and less valued,
knowing that without your grounding
I'd probably disappear,
forgetting that without
the delicate counterpoint I provide
our precious melody might then
devolve into mere drone.


* * *