Like Cottonwood Fluff

Like Cottonwood Fluff

(“And above all things be earnest in your love among yourselves, for love covers a multitude of sins.” 1 Peter 4:8)

Toss it into the air and let it float back down
like dandelions or cottonwood fluff, till it surrounds
the day like childlike joy. There is more than enough
to spare. There are voices in the air that call like
church-bells
to announce a new canticle for each doubtful heart.
The starting place is clear, the finish is certain,
but our steps in between demand a lighter hand.
A mother stays home, no gas in the car, and needs
to take her daughter to the doctor. And the breeze
blows as it will
until anonymous help finds its way under the door.
A father fears he has ruined a son with words that
should have been held back. But like a bursting dam
they escaped his mouth, burning the boy’s smile that
used to, unbidden, break the monotony of the grind. He
wished he could take it back, unwind the tone he
never meant. Don’t we all give vent at the worst
possible moments? He feared he was losing his job,
losing his mind, fusing shame and guilt he unloaded
it all in an unintentional moment. He was certain the words
went deeper than all the thousands before. He would
take the fire into his own bosom if he could.
And yet, last Christmas, every family game was punctuated
with laughter, and he began to believe in forgiveness again.

We all dream until there is nothing left to dream.
We all wait until the last moment, but love should never
wait at all.
Born of love (the Parent of us all) and dying at last
(the new Jerusalem) we pave our way (Via Dolorosa)
between aches and joy. And most of us could use
at least one more friend.

Cottonwood Fences

 

Cottonwood Fences

(“…they rounded up entire communities, to hand them over…” Amos 1:6b)

And now, with everything compressed on the back of the
weekly
garbage trucks,
there is more space for storage.
But why do we lasso entire circles who could have
played in the fields on their own
and put them between stainless steel and
wood slat fences alone?

I would prefer a carousel,
I would prefer a serenade,
a glass of lemonade made by the
brother and sister around the corner.
I would prefer the tales they tell.

And now, with every border crossing open season for
daily
bounty hunters,
there is less space for the high bridge.
So why do we herd them and burn our naked brands
into their sun-thatched ribs
and prod them between cornstalks and
scarecrows back again?

I would prefer a round-dance,
I would prefer a folk ballad,
a cup of corn soup made by the
sweaty brows of mothers and sons in from the fields.
I would prefer their invitation to dinner.

I’ve stopped shouting in the canyons that
no longer echo. It’s time to wake up everyone,
let everyone breathe. Or are you paying admission
now
to hand out just a
few days of freedom?

Once you colonize the land,
what will you do with the firsts who
walked it before
you ever erected your cabins with
cottonwood fences.