The Instant that Shifted

The Instant that Shifted

(“I smiled at them when they did not believe, And they did not look at my kindness ungraciously.” Job 29:24)

It was an instant that shifted nearly everything.
He glanced the moment the mouth and eyes sparkled
and never forgot the embrace. It felt like water that
seeped through the silt and sand, purified by
seconds of time. It was a glint like diamonds,
a simple flash and he wondered if anyone else
had seen it. Was it simply and only for him,
and if so, what would the day bring if he tucked it
away like gold coins saved like time.

It was a sideways look, brief and accurate as a
laser pulse. It was barely a grin, that would be to
determined. This was more reflex, the way a baby
nearly laughs at funny faces over and over again.
It was pinpoint, entering his soul, pore to pore,
and saturated his tethered heart. It had not been broken,
but was too connected to mishaps of the past.

He wished he could capture the moment and turn it
around and around in his mind like a recipe for
cake he had eaten as a child. But the moment was enough,
the instant began to fill something deep just because
she had smiled.

But It Is Nearly Winter Here

But It Is Nearly Winter Here

(“The blind men said to Jesus, ‘Lord, we want our eyes opened!’” Matthew 20:33)

The full array is spread before us every day,
before our feet and after our ears,
we are webbed like atoms,
we are circled like planets,
we are sun and we are shade,
we are remade with each breath.
New molecules that have existed from the
beginning of time.

Not all see who say, not all look who pronounce the
name of God as only heard in their own vernacular.
When the light bleeds through the narrow cavern openings
will you greet it like chilled chardonnay on a summer’s afternoon?

But it is nearly winter here, the tree limbs are roots above ground.
The snow flies rarely and stays only days. The hummingbirds,
now that it is mid-December,
should be migrating away in their charms so high that they
are unseen as they traverse the landmarks underneath flatiron
clouds.

I think hummingbirds do not flock. I think they are duets or
trios. They are playful cousins who show up every day; one
shows the others
where the nectar is and they stay the afternoon for rose hip tea.

But it is nearly winter here, and one ruby-headed friend still
hums outside my window. He knows where to find the feeder,
just above my eyesight as I watch the sky. He knows when it rains
to stand atop the sugar-water dispenser under the eaves to dry
his wings for a while.
But he has not packed for a southward journey, perhaps he will
stay through Christmas. I wonder if he knows that I delight
to see his lightning wings even in the shorter light late Autumn.

I asked for open eyes once. That was decades and lifetimes ago.
But I saw what I was trained to see, the rifle scope was well-aimed.
Enemies flew through the air; sinners, heretics, new age sages and
sugar-coated snowflakes. Dark was magnified until my eyes could
not stand the full light of day.

I asked for open eyes once again. And I awoke. And I saw the
silent attraction that pulls all things to itself; and pulls itself to
all things. And I wondered why anyone would want to
unravel the eternal tapestry of things.