A paean to the light

It's spring;
the trees are dancing a paean to the light,
dressed in bright green sequins
and sparkling for all to see.
But still,
the washing must be done,
brights separated from the dark,
the tedious task
of hanging all those old familiar
foibles out to dry,
(just as the lighter clothes we wear
expose the excesses of winter).

At least now
her fingers are warm
the window can be left open
the cool breeze
with its scent of soapy wonder
can flow through,
airing out the dark corners within...

Ezekiel 37:5

Awaken!
Put the music on,
and watch:
that which lies within,
dead,
cut off from shore,
will begin to bloom,
and basking in the healing light
of a new dawn,
a new day,
will cast its own reflecting warmth
which travels to the shore
igniting other dry bones
into life.

A concentration of light

Here I am,
looking for signs of hope,
and this is what you give me:
a wet leaf,
bowed down under the weight
of someone else's tears;
grasping for help
in every direction,
surrounded by darkness.
Oh!  I see, now,
the beauty and grace,
the aliveness in this moment,
how much light
is concentrated here,
how each vein is highlighted
in the tension;
how deeply I am being fed
from the Source.

When the way is blocked

I confess that today
I can't quite see
how to find my way
from where I am
to where I want to be.
I see the steps
that lead to --
well, God knows where --
but I can't
for the life of me
figure out how to get to them.
And I suppose
I should see these trees
as reaching out to embrace me
but frankly
they look a bit intimidating,
as if each one
is waiting to lift a root,
determined to trip me up
in case the rocks don't do the trick.

Reflections on a blessing

It's not that I have substance
of my own, you understand,
or even that I've been endowed
with some particular grace.
Whatever angel you see in me
is simply a reflection,
made temporarily clearer
by the beauty of the blessings
that, if only for a moment,
surround us both.
The light that's playing off
the surface of our lives
gives hints of deeper promises --
of hope,
and future unexpected gifts --
and as it (inevitably) shifts --
this face and thought
will fade from memory;
leaving space
for some new Presence in its place.

She watches and blesses

Though some might assume
she belongs in a museum,
she sits in a very humble place,
above the kitchen sink.
In this peaceful home, devoted to the care
of those about to die,
she glows softly in the dim light
as the white-robed angels
go about their business,
pouring glasses of water for the thirsty,
washing the dishes --
from dinners brought by friends
for those who can hardly bear to eat --
cleaning, tidying: the simple chores
all mothers do for those they love...
She watches, and blesses
each and every one.

New dawn, new year

Only in reflection
can we come to see
that while what lies before us
still looks dark,
the sun is stealing up behind us,
bringing light, illumination;
the tiny sparks to which we cling
so desperately in darkness
will soon be overpowered
by the sunbeams that they echo,
and all the shadows
that loomed so large
will be thrown into relief,
becoming insubstantial
in the brightness of new dawn.