A Rabbit Scampered

A Rabbit Scampered

(“Let us know, let us pursue knowledge of the Lord; his coming is as certain as the dawn. He will come to us like the rain, like the autumn and spring rains come on the earth.”  Hosea 6:3)

When I looked up a rabbit scampered
at the edge of my vision. I suspected nothing.

I will not waste this day. But I will write honestly and
say—in my mind, not aloud—I’d rather have lunch with
a well-worn friend
than sit like a solitary monk. I was not made to be
a hermit. I was not created for this tightness in my chest.
I worry that I’m less than enough for anyone.
I worry my reservoir will overflow and everyone will see
what I’ve been holding back. So I stay alone in a town
where the river calls campers and dogs to sniff out
the steelhead and salmon.

Circles are better than points on a map.
Guitars passed around the group until everyone
has their chance to introduce the newest tune
born of love,
or lament,
or laughter,
or loneliness.
The four-bar ending of every song always includes
a quartet of hands upon the singer, a place in the
circle’s center
to see the heart that broke or bragged. The soul
that confessed its fears, its agony at possibly
leaving there unrenewed.

When I got up to leave, Emmit the blind
met me, licked my face like he knew me
and walked me to the door. I think I like
old dogs the best.

These Days the Blues

 

These Days the Blues

(“And stretching out His hand toward His disciples, ‘Here are My mother and My brothers!’” Matthew 12:49)

These days the blues pursue me
just two steps behind my slower pace.
I’ve remanufactured time, an endless loop,
an arpeggio designed to keep me within soothing
distance of smiles I miss,
wine we’ve dispensed,
and arguments we’ve left to evaporate
once the sun makes its rounds again.

Once I wanted less pressure,
once I sought more leisure,
now I look down the driveway for
another soul, a dead ringer for
day trips on dewy hills.

Once I was impressed by counts
and recounts,
filled chairs and noise,
good reports about a preaching machine
now grounded without wings.

These days the pain recruits me
just behind my older face.
Please call me, my brother;
please ride up and remind me
why I once called you sister.
Oh mother, of father, oh family
who ate vegan spaghetti and bread.

Now I’m impressed by doubts
and dropouts,
question marks and silence,
good transports that carry my heart
on prayer and a wing.