A house for starlings
Bit by bit, my love grows
–
through the stone, briars
and tangles,
a pale reflection of Your
Love.
Spellbound by the moon in
the lake,
I can’t lift my eyes
toward the true moon,
but I feel it in my
blood.
Grapes must be crushed
before wine
can be served in
long-stemmed glasses.
Once the gourd is hollow,
it proves useful –
a musical instrument, a
dipper at the well
or a house for starlings.
What happens here happens
in the unseen realms.
How can we fathom our
path or progress?
Nothing lost and nothing
gained
but, somehow, You
promise, God emerges.
O child of God, it’s a
process and a journey.
Impatient one, you are
right on track.
The rasp of Your bow
Like an old coat,
You hung me in the
corner.
Now I’m collecting dust.
If I could only feel You
snug within me once more!
A fiddle mounted on the
wall,
no music comes from me.
O to feel the rasp of
Your bow!
Tuck me under Your chin;
let’s play a round or
two!
A lump of clay once
rolled in Your palms,
set aside, left unformed,
hardening by the hour.
O to feel myself shaped
by Your hands,
as Your hands once shaped
the language of Love.
O child of God, adjust
yourself to the Beloved’s whims.
Believe it when He says He
never leaves.
Precarious
Women from the well in
perfect balance,
water jars spilling not a
drop –
so I place my Beloved
above my head,
conducting this world’s
affairs.
How precarious it seems,
juggling my faith, here
and there,
often weighty and absurd
– a pain in the neck, really,
but I never think of
dumping it.
I’d rather be wrong about
my Beloved,
than right about atheism.
Other religions have
snapped under me,
their bones diseased to
the marrow,
but the burden of my
faith
in the Beloved has lifted
me –
at times, my whole being
threatening to fly away.
O child of God, you have
no choice in the matter.
The Ancient One has
knocked upon your door.
Heavy equipment
There’s a vineyard within
a graveyard;
a tomb on a hill built of
discarded stones,
the bones of a man Who
gave Himself
to a world that hurries
past now.
The wine from that
vineyard, grown
in the mandali’s dust,
cinders and bones,
intoxicates me.
I’ve never completely
recovered
my former sobriety.
I can’t be trusted to
walk a straight line
or operate heavy equipment!
I stepped out of the Tomb
one morning
onto uneven terrain. O Lord,
I don’t know what to do
when You strand me like this.
If You never come back,
I’ll die here –
on the corner where You
left me.
O child of God, if the
Master never returns,
it’s just another way of
His keeping His promise.
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