Overflow

Overflow

(“Your barns will be filled with grain, and you will have too much wine to store it all.” Proverbs 3:10)

There were nights when the only light from the stars
could be seen from the bottom of a well. So narrow the
constellations
were lost while the earth turned toward morning.
The problem with homemade telescopes is
they whittle the sky down to only a sliver view.
Pointed so accurately they could not see the
waving grain or the vats full of wine just a few
steps away from the bottom of the shaft that kept
it all watered so well.

Climbing out to see the midnight sky, the expanse
was effusive with pinpoint twinkles a million years old.
And the moon, large as harvest, lit it all like a ragamuffin’s
lamp. The wheat waved like happy scarecrows,
the wine flowed like a bride’s long veil.

We heard the sound of a distant choir that hung
above the night, the angels laughing like teenagers
caught dancing on the hills. Our point of view
opened the set list of the universe to our ears and eyes.
It all seemed an accident, a lucky alignment of
coincidences that conspired to break us open from
the inside out.

This was the beginning, the answer to the refrain
that repeated the verse and chorus over and over
again. This was the overnight song we had heard about.
This was the overflow, the existential evidence that
there was more than just the wingspan of our limited reach.
This was the abundance promised by voices that
translated divine music into the lingua franca.

Over the Distant Hill

Over the Distant Hill

(“Don’t let any evil talk come out of your mouths. Say only what will help to build others up and meet their needs. Then what you say will help those who listen.” Ephesians 4:29)

Just over the distant hill and away
from the dusty syllables
of everyone who knows better than
everyone else…

Just beyond the dewy field and away
from the chiseled orphanage
where children walk in their sleep
and repeat the refrain of their adoptive’s martial songs…

Just beyond the last eucalyptus and away
from the fits and starts that
memory holds tighter than a baby blanket…

Just above the final crest and away
from the fatal consonants
of every lecture delivered like icy proverbs
from enthroned tongues of the allies of
insinuation…

Just there the final step, the last footprint in the
warm mud waiting,
the vagabond, with his heart packed high upon his back,
sees the fire of affection and

Sets his heart upon the brow of the hill that loves
truth more than judgment. And he sits awhile in
the embrace of warm; he drinks awhile in the
pastures out of harm
of the words propelled like daggers from behind.

He still wonders, though, an immigrant in a new land,
why so many “amens” at the words used to
shrink others down to size. Why so many
“hallelujahs” when dangerous barbs quote
scripture, and reduce it all to rules

Only the initiated have never broken. Having spoken
their piece,
they slap each other on the back, have a potluck and
evict the homeless boy sleeping in the shed.

He will never leave this new country, for, in truth and love,
he knows it is his native home.