The Doves Have Returned

The Doves Have Returned

(“Bring balm for her wounds, in case she can be healed.” Jeremiah 51:8b)

Perhaps our distractions can soothe us,
a butterfly interrupting our train of thought.
The doves have returned to their favorite tree which stands
still naked until the spring clothes it in green.
We nailed houses to our eaves in December in hopes
they would take up residence there.
For now they pierce the sod, soft from the snow that
is melting. Surrounded by robins they share the square of land,
a mound of weeds and grass and mud where the worms
have dug a home.

Perhaps we could watch it together, no bother if they
finish their meal, there will still be more silence to share.
I know I am clubbed overnight by misshapen dreams and giants
of my past, threatening to break bonds that I thought
would cover me until winter had passed. I don’t do much
these days. I used to talk to pay for life. I don’t do much
speaking these days. And, in my dreams, I am nearly silenced
as well.

Here the snow is an attraction. I know for you it is a chore.
Still, I would rather be soaking in crystal waters with the
sun healing all my backward thinking; healing all our
shivering and hidden tears.

It seems to me, in miniature lucid moments,
that there is warmth within. And yet my skin still
yearns for sun to cloak my body and drink summer’s
full spectrum of light.

Could two friends in silence reheat the day? Would we
send the frost away? Could we slay those giants that grabbed us
like puppets and slung us, forgotten toys, behind the furniture?
Could two friends restore, even sadly, the smiles that
first graced our faces as children?

I used to speak of life. A hand, a wink, or a graceful look
would suffice these days.

Holy Amnesia

 

Holy Amnesia

(“I, I am the one who wipes away all your sins. I do this to please myself. I will not remember your sins.” Isaiah 43:25)

I do not want to boast about privileged visions
or untrained prophesies,
but I have sat upon park benches when the sun barely
reached the ground. Alone beneath the sky,
breath like ghost clouds,
my heart with so many holes it contained
the gravity of the universe.

I have seen

Birds approach; gray, rust and deep sea
toy soldiers eyeing the ground. Above
and alone
a woodpecker hunts the bark; castanets
to waken the mourning doves pairing up
for winter’s work. They have been here before.

Taken to the extreme, all I can imagine
(after the tears have dried following my last disaster)
is stillness that entices a robin, then two,
to come within inches of my mud-encrusted shoes.

Do I deserve their friendship? The seafoam and
salt from the beach past the rushes seem to say
everything I need to hear.

I wander from the longshadow bench toward
the ocean chanting creation’s ancient song,
and I sit upon a boulder
while my perforated heart beats the refrain just
beneath my hearing.

The whole universe is reclaimed, renewed,
and I, along with it, inhale the thick evidence
that sand and sun, sin and whims, have been made
One
in holy amnesia.

A Rainful of Thunder

A Rainful of Thunder

Sing the longing, the refrain of spiral clouds after
chorus one, two and three. Rehearse the verses you’ve heard
from improvised warblers giving dawn its due revolution.

You’ve heard the mourning dove, seen them nest,
and return next year, the next, and left the nest waiting
outside upon the balcony. Was it their young who returned,
or the chance landing upon the previous pairs address?
It did not matter, their coos accompanied the rhythm and hum
of the slow meter of everyday drums.

Echo the wind. You’ve watched it since beginning to see
what the invisible leaves behind and the visible steps aside
just as you wished for an unobstructed view. Were the
clouds lost ghost ships and did the earth slip from under
your feet as they teetered across the sky? Were leaves spinning
timbrels the trees used to join the dance? Was this the time
when all stands still,

Breath is imperceptible,
time does not pass but waits like a diamond web
to catch certain memories and give them back
once dreams and wonder have followed
our popsicle sticks down the gutter on a hot
and sticky summer
just after the shout of a rainful of thunder.