Our Perfecter in Pain

 Our Perfecter in Pain

(“Seeing the crowds, He felt compassion for them, because they were distressed and downcast, like sheep without a shepherd.” Matthew 9:36)

Scattered like rain-soaked ashes they
dotted the landscape with their bodies aching.
They had tried to do it all on their own, they had
run so hard that they were almost wasted away. Now
they were etched in silence where their wounds were newly
opened for everyone to see.
They held up cardboard signs; they were their hearts they
silently advertised.
Some were broken, torn in two. Some were perforated and
almost split apart. The day had been strenuous
on the
anniversary of their discontent. They blamed no one
and were the same during the day as they were through
their straining nights. They refused to change their tune
even if no one listened. They did not change to a
happier key
but kept insisting that something had caused them harm.

They had not come to play, though the notion had crossed
their minds. It was all too magnetic, this melancholy that
settled uninvited upon their buried hopes. They were just
as alive as ever, but every movement was an ache that
threatened to split their humanity down the middle.
It wasn’t subtle, but it had been easily ignored.

Oh shepherd, our sheep-gatherer, stitch our dreams with
your story of healing. Can our heartbreak belong to you,
can you unfasten our sorrow for just a day? We live
but are weary; we are not fashioned for this daily
slicing of our minds. We are victims of the seasons
and love out of time. Candidly we would like to name
the captors of our dissatisfaction.

Oh healer, our perfecter in pain, see us again
and remove the blame we carry too high upon our
shoulders. Join us as the center of our multitude;
remind us with crossbeam love that all suffering
belongs to you, belongs to you.

Belongs to you.

To See You Dance

To See You Dance

All I want is to see you dance the
way a toddler does at a wedding
in the rain
after the music has stopped
before the cake is cut. All I want is
to see you child and free.

All I want is to hear you sing the
way a robin does before the morning
shines on the dew
after the roosters have crowed. All I want is
to hear you sing for the roses and sunflowers,
for the does and rabbits, for the grass and the breeze.

All I want is to feel the blue of your eyes
scanning the skies for the next joyful song
in the meadow
after the picnic and
before the quiet stroll home. All I want is
to feel you like a cloud embracing the
naming of your day, the meaning of the
beloved, the skipping stones across a crystal
lake.

All I’ve said, and left unsaid,
I’ve stuttered far too often, and muttered
to myself afterward that
everything I say has too many meanings.
I want to play, and simply play, to dig
in the sand,
to tell you the ocean belongs to you.

Here is my heart. It’s damaged I know.
Here is the me-of-me, sometimes making
mud pies I pass off as birthday cakes. Until
you taste it, and somehow say it’s the best cake
you’ve ever had.

Here is the sorrow of me, the hammered part that
only wants to play the music that will help you
dance.
Here is the insanity, only wanting the lyrics that
fill your mouth with songs and joy.

If the morning allows, I will show you the sun
beaming on the tulip fields,
and slowly walk away as your
aches are healed, your face shines
new like noon,
your eyes, sometimes red with tears,
wide open like summer.

If the morning allows I
would bring coffee and conversation,
and tell you I understand,
and will always, until the last dance
on faltering feet,
understand even better than before.