Day 7: Spring Comes
Fading yellow daffodil heads, brilliant spots of once glorious shine, welcome sunspot interrupting winter’s forever dead time, now bowing in regret, bids farewell to spring’s advance.
Spring enters by ways both unknown and clear.
Wind-blown chimes sends song of longing through scented spring air, trembling leaves of the winsome willow ponder: Can it be? Can it be? Robin Redbreast sits lightly
in her tree, nestlings soon breaking free.
Bumble bees glint in sparkling skies, seeking stray dandelions, nectar-wise. Earthworms
writhe on the dry, heated pavement, longing for release . . .
found in the sudden sprinkling
of gentle spring rains.
Day 6: Broken Sheep, Shattered Sparrows
This is the Lord we proclaim day to day?
(or on occasional Sundays in alternate years . . . )
He sees even the sparrow as it falls, it is said.
But my question remains:
“Why must the sparrow fall at all from the sky it does grace?”
Was it because of the singing?
The careless freedom of eating worms from the earth?
The reliance on shared benevolence, living next door to the lilies
fair maidens, yet so lazy
they spun not a single thread –
and still remained the apples of His eye.
Alas, my fine, feathered friend.
Your own apple had shards of glass,
that cast you from the sky.
Childhood fantasies linger long into time
Hallowed vision of a kindly old gentleman’s eyes
Sparkling and merry
Forgiving and warm
Stern and caring
All wrapped into one.
Indeed, take the white robes and dye them bright red
And this kindly old man could be our own dear Saint Nick . . .
And what of the lamb who strays far from the fold?
So eager to explore away from his home?
Unwilling to settle for a life in the pen,
milling about bleating dead words: expected litanies by rote,
no meaning or grace — just required for freedom, required for peace.
Little does the lamb realize (to his master at least), he’s worth more than the rest,
so precious, so blessed
that his Master will leave all the rest behind . . . and seek over hill and down dale,
crossing rivers and fields, until He finds the lamb, and binds the lamb —
Breaking a leg, an arm, a soul, a sprit . . . returning the lamb to the pen in pieces.
Remember that kindly old man in the white?
Looking suspiciously like a jolly known elf?
He’s really a vengeful deity enthroned
With remarkably little patience
Considering eternity’s eons when compared to our years . . .
(Einstein could perhaps explain this unfolding of time
But until he does so, I’ll trust evidence seen with my eyes.)
Day 5: God’s Hands
God’s hands don’t hide what heaven forbids.
God’s eyes don’t cry when sinners begin.
God’s feet shuffle soundlessly
closer to peer
at the choices playing out
day to day,
year by year.
God’s heart still beats no matter the fall.
God’s voice still echoes and beckons and calls.
Day 4: Sleepless in Sacramento
No moment is shattered in time
but for those that never end
on perpetual replay
side to side
coiled action tightly wound
shrieking to find a single way out
of . . .
fevered brain filling with the atonal buzz
of dead hopes and dancing fears.
Bare feet cut grooved lines
patterned after myths and dreams, and
ignore the rotting stench
wafting upward to blind inner eye
while crabbed hands dig ever deeper,
Covered in the slime
Of choices gone awry
Veins pulse gently,
Pause, listen with half an ear
No six foot grave here . . . just endless abyss.
Day 3: A Charm to Ward Off Morning News