When God makes the toss

God threw the ball for me today!
Inside me a hundred puppies
are leaping to their feet
in pursuit of the golden prize,
their tiny lopped-off tails
wiggling  so hard
it throws them off the track.

Which is better?
The rush of wind in my fur,
the thrill of pursuit,
the taste of yellow?


No,
it’s that moment,
that split second,
when I capture the ball in my mouth
and look back at you;
that smile of complicity:

We both know I will never drop it at your feet.

No longer mine

I spent my 20's in New England
and every fall rejoiced
in the Paniculata Grandiflora,
a flowering hydrangea tree
that turned a lovely peach color
every autumn.  I even planted one
in the yard of the first house
I ever owned, some 40 years ago.
I wonder now: is it still there?
Did it, unlike that marriage,
grow strong and tall,
and bless, and shade those fortunates
who dare to venture near?

Finding our way

Some days
the world seems topsy-turvy
and church seems even worse.
How do we turn that picture
upside down; set things to rights,
strike a better balance?
Perhaps some time with Mary;
time spent in contemplation,
intimate with Christ,
tender with all that is --
even the horror of death --
might help us
find our way again...

Beyond doubt

How could we ever doubt?
Surely the power
that makes the sun to rise
so gloriously,
the moon to set
with such perfect grace
can move in us
with grace and glory
achieving more than you or I
could ever ask or imagine...

Color will return

There will, of course, be days
when shame and self-disgust,
rooted in that sense of emptiness,
stretch their gray tentacles
upward, like a cancer,
leaching the color
from all that thrives and flourishes,
green and true;
that reaches for the sky
and touches into possibility.
Breathe deep, and remember --
the light will shift,
and color will return.

These wingèd sails

Some part of us, though born to sail,
hungers for the stillness,
that anchor point between
the safety of what is or was
and the inevitable turmoil
of what's to come,
and so we tie ourselves in knots,
clinging to the known
which only makes it harder
when the time comes to unfurl
these wingèd sails
and run before the wind.
Loosen, don't tighten, loosen!

The space between

If, while on one ferry,
I take pictures of another,
is that a bit like "grass is greener
on the other side of water?"
What is it that I'm capturing?
Where's the center of attention?
Is it not the other ferry,
but more about the quality
of the light as it reflects
on the space that lies between,
that dark and rippling space,
the unswimmable divide
that lies between?