Remedy for Shame

Remedy for Shame

(“So let us boldly approach God’s throne of grace. Then we will receive mercy. We will find grace to help us when we need it.” Hebrews 4:16)

Shall we bow in grateful devotion;
shall we never take it all for granted?
Stubbing our toes or shooting our foes,
we used to feel like we had to beg for
exoneration. We would make it all up,
we would make it good if only we could.

It used to be debatable and I would cry like
I had caused the next apocalypse. I would hide
for fear
I had caused the end of the world. My missteps
still sting, they are mottled needles filled with
regrets and dull anticipation. I walk miles treading
the ground everyone else has covered.

But now, at the end of the day or the beginning of
rain, I can find a balm that calms the breezes that
used to freeze my soul. My resolutions are seldom
solid, my promises sincere but weak as decaying wood.
I have discovered…no, it has landed upon me like a
remedy I never dreamed. There is a hand that, firm
as fire,
reconnects me to the might of mercy and grace’s
brightness that subdues the dark of the night.

The remedy for shame, the medicine for shivering regret,
we find a throne occupied by fiery love. We do not
shrink back for the flame bids us come closer and
learn that the burning that once consumed us whole
is now a glow larger than a super nova. We are infused
with grace, a blaze that ignites us to discover we have
been family all along.

Daffodils

Daffodils

(“Those on the rocky soil are the ones who, when they hear, receive the word with joy; and yet these do not have a firm root; they believe for a while, and in a time of temptation they fall away.” Luke 8:13)

It smelled like mud where the excavator was working
building a new road into the new subdivision. Five
houses in all have been built, or are nearly ready.
The trusses pointed to the morning star until they
closed it all in.

The smell of mud is bracing, the smell of mud
invites the promise of spring. The road being built
will hopefully last as long and as well as every measurement
and lined with daffodil quilts, their bulbs warm below the
the winter sod. They wait there, under the surface,
for months at a time until there is more light than dark,
more day than night,
And slowly poke their way through the grass with
buds closed and delicately protected.

I like the ones that stay, that grace my walks with bright yellow
imitating the sun. I like the fences where they flaunt their full display
along a 12-foot section. They are butter and their stalks are made
of mud enriched by the neighbor who owns the fence. Facing west,
his daffodils get the sun for the warmest part of the day. There
are no stones in his flower bed. That is apparent from the joy that the
colors bring and how long they keep their mouths wide open
to the rain.

Torrents of Rain

Torrents of Rain

(“O Lord, restore our well-being, just as the streams in the arid south are replenished.” Psalm 126:3)

Don’t let the fantasy of uneasy paragraphs
persuade you that the everything is glued,
everything is static,
everything is anti-motion. The stars are
moving away from us a trillion miles away.

Don’t let the certainty of ambiguity convince you
the rains are gone. Don’t let the clouds on the horizon
obscure the coming day. Lighter than the mountains,
denser that the sun,
invited by petition,
stretched like the ocean’s horizon,
hold the hope that yesterday’s promises bring.

The fog burned off quicker than I guessed,
the light, though slanted late summer,
reached my porch before the evening fell.
We examined every exposed corner where
the light bent to reveal life hidden behind the
outcroppings of doubt.

The wadis were waiting, the dried riverbed
asleep and dry. The pilgrims plod the
unkempt desert floor; the preachers are not
certain, though they have set a new date for
the end of the world. Do they every stop their
silly prophecies once the storms do not gather
like the have pontificated? Do they admit the harm
their proclamations have done?

There is a rainy season; there is a time when
water will fill the desert again. It does not come
from ego-saturation, it does not arrive because
someone painted sign with the exact date and time.
You can no more command the rain than you can
tie the wind with a half-hitch, tethering it to the mountains.

There is a season for ease; there is a gracious month
when the Spirit will fill the waiting again. She comes
when least expected; she fills the imagination; she washes
the religious dust away. You can no more command the
Spirit than you can turn the earth with your hands.

As a matter of fact, there is far more water to quench
your soul
than all the suns in the universe. Watch the desert
late evening silhouette. Let the peace that pursues the
thirsty make an oasis of your tear-dried tongues. No need
to ration anything. It is time to share the overflow
that comes from the joyous music of torrents of rain
we thought would never arrive.

Standing Alone in the Rain

Standing Alone in the Rain

(“No one has ever seen God. The only Son, who is truly God and is closest to the Father, has shown us what God is like.” John 1:18)

I’ve seen you staring back at me,
I’ve heard you whispering with my own voice.
I’ve deduced all there is left to deduce of
who you actually are.
But nothing changes with me,
nothing shines more brightly.
For an hour I laugh and come home
and cry
and forget what I was laughing about.
I never was much good at praying anyway.

Everything feels just slightly out of reach,
everything is cloudy while my friends enjoy the sun.
I’d change my colors, but they are all greyscale,
they are all dots on a screen waiting to be seen.

My guitar sits untouched.
I thought I would be writing music by now.
My words are pedantic,
my happiness a chest of moldy memories,
faint joy for a second of hesitation. Today,
if I must speak honestly,
reminds me why I cannot trust myself,
why I always rush myself to imbibe a spirit
that will get me through the night.

But it is the day that burdens me. The sun,
even when it is bright, is heavy, is gravity,
is elusive. My heart lies inside with the shades pulled tight.
Can anyone imagine what it’s like to have
nearly
everything you want and be squeezed into a box
full of unfulfilled promises?

Before they turn the lights out, I should tell you
I don’t mind standing alone in the rain.

Like Cannons of Rain

Like Cannons of Rain

(“We are the temple of the living God, you see, just as God said: ‘I will live among them and walk about with them; I will be their God, and they will be my people.’” 2 Corinthians 6:16b)

If I told you tomorrow I’d be gone
would you save the day, would you hide it away
with your keepsakes?
But You may as well try
to store the sun ‘round midnight.
If I heard my ears would soon be closed,
would I memorize the way the songs make me feel?
Would I heal
outside
where the lightning scores the skies,
where the electricity conducts itself like cannons
of rain?
If I told you I’d never set foot in this place again,
would you remember my name? Would you etch
it on the front door? Would you sound it out like
phonics?
But you may as well try to name the gods,
pin down the angels,
catch the waterfalls midstream.

If I felt the warm no more, caught the smoke
of campfires on the ridges beyond the river
and then turned to go home,
would you come look for me? Would you
insist our way of life could exist on the
warmest beach
or coldest church bench?
If my fingers played notes hidden between
the black and white keys,
would it be another reason to cry heresy?
But you may as well try to keep the
hummingbirds away from
the climbing jasmine.

You might as well try to keep me from
exploring sanctuaries of light with gray
pronouncements today.

Today I will lay me down in peace. Today
I will cram my mind with unimagined things,
and laugh that we could be so certain about
which compass points are holier,
at which destinations the gods dwell.

Once you mark it on a map the mystery
dissipates and hardens like grime. Once
you build your monument
the sighs become yawns and we turn our
mattresses over so satisfied that we simply
cannot be wrong.

If I told you I don’t know how I feel about
precise measurements, would you still claim me
as a worshiper waiting alone?

We Might Be Halfway There

We Might Be Halfway There

(“Love isn’t rude. It doesn’t think about itself. It isn’t irritable. It doesn’t keep track of wrongs.” 1 Corinthians 13:5)

From the time it has taken so far
we might be halfway there. The territory
is unfamiliar;
the road signs, riddled with birdshot,
are unreadable.

We could turn back.
But we will not.
We know where we’ve been
better than where we are going.

We left friends behind, it is true,
but only the future holds daylight in its hands.

I saw you on my video screen 20 years after
the last time we drank coffee in the rain.
I only tuned in to see what the man was preaching,
and your eyes, weary but smiling, were the same eyes
that teased me late summers at the powwow grounds.

I tried to call you, but it did not go through. I wish I
could share the etchings I’ve drawn like
friends share a glass of wine.

Time is a bird that returns to its roost,
that builds permanent nests next to current events.
So we take our time
and spend it too much along.
So we remember the moments
and populate our days with neural images,
undreamed states of being.

I will try to call you again before
the end of the day.

You Hugged the Rain

You Hugged the Rain

(“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” 1 Corinthians 10:31)

I remember everything.
Except your words.
I remember your face like the aura
of a child. I see the way your eyes crinkled
every time you smiled.
I remember everything.

I’m sorry if I ever ignored you,
or if I ever cut our phone calls short.
I was guarding my own heart for so long
I sometimes thought an early goodbye was
better than
adding more words to your memory. You already
seemed
to be filled with too many lectures.
But I could have listened longer. I could have.

I thought you were ready to explode like
a water balloon landing on the ground. And then
I’d look again
and the water, seeking its own level,
settled behind your eyes. I know what it’s like
to shut everything tight
and lock it up for fear of being exposed. Usually
I would discover, walking in the cold, that I could
find and alley where the snow had not yet been plowed.

I’m weary too. But I’ve seen you when you forgot the
pressure. You played like a child. You hugged the rain.
You waved down silly hitchhikers to give them directions to town.
But it wears me out too.

I should have met you for ice cream more often.
I should have mentioned the waterfall that washes our
shame away like
the first sunny day following the snow.
I wish I knew because I would have
remembered everything.
Your words. Your pain. Your loves. Your refrains
of distant songs. Your worth. Your worth. Your worth.
I would have remembered everything.

Your Face in the Rain

Your Face in the Rain

(“The Lord's faithful love never comes to an end. He never stops being kind to us.” Lamentations 3:22)

I don’t want to sound like him,
I don’t want to look like them.
I don’t want to dance like a thousand children,
I only want to see your face in the rain.

I want you to know me by the lines on my face,
I want you to know you will never be replaced.
If you want to find me,
if you’re looking for my soul,
come look in the puddles
on the low side of the road.

I don’t want to be like you,
I don’t want to see like us.
I don’t want to read a hundred mystery books,
I only want to see your face in the rain.

Come visit me at the hovel I know the best,
come look me up where grit and grace come to rest.
Come sit with the broken,
if you really want to know
what moves me today,
what is nourishing my soul.

I don’t want to shine like gold,
I don’t want to be that old.
I don’t want to sing another dozen songs,
I only want to see your face in the rain.

You may not enjoy the cuisine,
you may prefer to be unseen.
You may return to your home
once
you see I like being alone.

I don’t want to get a raise,
I don’t want to occupy space.
I don’t want to number my weeks and my days,
I only want to see your face in the rain.

When Joy is Ancient Like Rain

When Joy is Ancient Like Rain

(“Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving; let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise!” Psalm 95:2)

Run in for cover,
that’s how my soul feels on days like these,
find somewhere to hide. Not that
I am in danger; I find my heart craving
impossible meals and solo excursions with
a gypsy mind.

There were two friends on the road,
one danced with his classmates and one
sipped wine whenever it was offered.
They had met up after 50 years,
they thought they might recognize the
old poppy fields. They thought they might taste
the teenage pizza they shared, a large
hot Italian sausage. They played pong
while they waited.

There were dark wooden tables there.
There were girls who recognized us.
There was a boy who looked like me
who thought he knew, finally, for once,
how the world worked and how God handed
out prizes to the penitent.
He cried in his room a lot over
cravings and old coffee cups underneath his bed.

This man, me-who-writes,
would give up a quarter cup of convenience
for a pinch of ad-libbed laughter in a
favorite restaurant.

I could sing of your insanity forever,
the ways you schemed, the poems you dreamed,
and the ways you viewed the world, they way
you practiced each scene like it was the first day
of a trip through the winding roads of the East Bay Hills.

Today, though the rain speaks every name I’ve
learned along the way,
I will listen for their songs. The joy feels like sadness,
the gladness sounds like monks chanting. The silence
looks like a doorway to sojourn and paisley afternoons.

There Is No Stopping the Rain

There Is No Stopping the Rain

(“Let the words of my mouth and the thoughts of my heart be pleasing in Your eyes, O Lord, my Rock and the One Who saves me.” Psalm 19:14)

There is no stopping the rain, not by iron walls or
massive defense. It crawls over the peaks of the mountains
and lands just outside my window. I am so
hollow
I wish it would fill me, gauge me, let the substance
fill the hole shaped like the world in me.

I looked at your yard yesterday, with your flags raised like
Babel’s tower. I looked at your lawn and the stakes you’ve driven
into the ground. And the rain did not stop. And the rain filled
the gauges on your fenceposts, and the rain filled the field
next to you, and the rain filled the water dishes for
cats and dogs,
and the rain spilled from higher ground to lower life,
and the rain would not be stopped.

I would move to the desert if only for an excuse to remain
so empty. The rains come a quarter inch a month.

There is no hurrying the waiting, not by text or phone,
not by anguished obsession with killing time. I would
call you now
if I knew your number.
I would drive for half a week to see your face at the door.

I admit I saw a rainbow. You sent me the picture, remember?
I admit I heard the thunder. My dog hid underneath the bed.
I admit I could do more to sweeten my tone,
I admit, after a life of acing tests in school,
I have broken every rule and suffered the consequences.
You can check my expense account. I’ve shoveled the
muck
that accumulated when the rain overran my intentions.

Can the rain reshape me? Can it rise to a level in me--
that living spring in me--and stop the anxiety that has

Hollowed me whole?

The Melody Fell Like Rain

The Melody Fell Like Rain

(“But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. For behold, I bring you good news of great joy, which will be for all people.’” Luke 2:10)

You sitting in limbo between dusk and dawn,
you’ve drawn your boundaries in the dark,
built your fortresses by dimming firelight.
You couldn’t see, which forced you to emit
certainties to keep away the cold and fright.
Even when the wind turned
you insisted the world was ending.
(I should say, for clarity,
all would be destroyed except your indoctrinated
minority.)

But on the edge of your eyeliners, arrowheads and
atomic defenses, there is a riff floating down from
unheeded clouds. The stars were obscured, so you
observed nothing but pre-quake jitters. You thought
the end was near.

Acid jazz sounds so ominous in the middle of the night.

But the melody fell like rain on the other side of the hill,
the riff that began like Voodoo Chile woke a cohort whose
campfire was all the light they needed. They had told stories
all night,
they had watched the lambs asleep
and played harps and pipes, sung highland and
baritone, mostly out of tune.

Even as the wind turned they remained undisturbed,
caught up in ancient tales, sagas passed down for centuries.
As the drops of heaven floated above their heads, one,
then another,
then each, then all,
laid down their voices and muted their lyres to hear
the song that had no beginning, the song that would never end.

It was sung backwards, as far as they could tell, but the
meaning was clear,
the words and tempo, 120 bbm, matched their own pulse
as they stood in wonder.
This was new and not a traditional fable; it was familiar,
but felt ageless, lyrics sifting through the layers of dust
that had settled like wrinkles on human faces.

Joy was a comma. Now it was exclaimed. Joy was a
rest stop. Now it was uncontained. Joy was a possession.
Now it was unrestrained.

Permeate Us Like Rain

Permeate Us Like Rain

(“This is My much-loved Son. Listen to Him.” Mark 9:7)

Permeate us like rain,
let the clouds surround us with the intense
privacy of light. But our ears are
stuffed and marooned on the islands of
powdered wine. We pass nothing to each other,
and can think of nothing more to say than
we hope it all turns out okay. But ok
is nothing more than
saying I want it to turn out my way.

We pass the sidewalk saints for the black
and white
that describes every person’s plight in morality plays.
We make do with lists of rules. We tailor our
prophecies so fools can fancy themselves kings.

Lord it over us, we ask you, please. And spill the dross
from the outliers of the gold rush we hoard for ourselves.
We can sell the dust in vials of water from the Jordan,
we can make a killing on gilded pages too holy to read.

But there is a turning, a do-si-do that is deeper than earth,
higher than your cruciform steeples. But there is a fancy
dance
that invites every tribe to see the leap of child to parent,
clasp to sharing, strangers to lovers, and an imitation so
clumsy we all fall down laughing.

And we never speak of locked buildings again. We have
seen what we have seen, we have died how we have died,
we have lived

How we are loved. And we can never die again.

Drenched in Rain and Wine

Drenched in Rain and Wine

(“The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid again. In his joy, he goes away and sells all that he has and buys that field.” Matthew 13:44)

My thoughts are drenched in rain and wine
while the sun and shade play in shadows and shine.
Everything is, and if everything was, then I could say
all is well
on a day when frowns are immodest.
Faces from every town,
voices from every conversation,
the store that sold 50 kinds of hamburgers,
the coffee shop that served espressos 50
years ago,
the tiny toes of my first-born son, and the fear of
getting it all wrong.
The playful pranks of my second born, and watching
him grow full wit.
The dance that began upon the birth of our unplanned
and only
daughter, and wondering how I stumbled upon such joy.
The wife I met when she was only a child,
and the child that still resides inside her. I only hope
I have not, in my pain, in my dark demeanor, in my
trespasses and sins
stolen even a single laugh that was lavishly rationed
upon her.

I do not know. I have no artistry in this. I stumble.
I mean,
I stumbled into all of this. While snow-and-dust
sandpapered the prairies; while gales-and-gusts whip
up the mighty river; while songs are sung (the ones
in melancholy minor keys, my delight) I tilt my head
to wonder how I ended, given so much pain falling,
and stained recalling of misconvenience;
I wonder how I found this treasure and why
its simple contents are indexed in my heart;
my bucket list of joy.

Let Mercy Rain

 

Let Mercy Rain

(“Do not allow mercy and truth to leave you. Fasten them around your neck. Write them on the tablet of your heart.” Proverbs 3:3)

Why shouldn’t we let mercy rain, soak the ground,
awake the grain, turn the curious heads around to
see the dewdrops left on the leaves of grass while
we slept?
A more precious ornament cannot be found
than the opalescent dance of light-strings that play
before our eyes. I am guilty of overlooking miniature
mercies.

Still others erase the common sense that keeps the
dogs of dogma at bay,
loudly announcing facts without existence,
and proudly display their resistance to simple kindnesses
that keep roses alive because the next-door neighbor
loves to view them out her afternoon window, reading
slowly in the autumn afternoon. Her tea steeps, she sips
with each page. She remembers younger days.

Granted, I have not tended my roses well. Spindly and
top heavy,
the last butter-yellow bud sits atop a sunward branch and
may not make it until winter. I will do better this year,
and prune them soon before the first snow flies.

Why shouldn’t we let kindness snow, cover the old,
awake the new baby’s eyes, turn the toddling boy around
to throw the first snowball at mom to make her laugh;
while she barely opens the car door with her eyes half-closed
from waking?

Waiting by My Window

Waiting by My Window

Waiting by the window for the rain to fill the yard,
hiding in the closet where joy has been locked up tight,
formless friends never knock on the door while
a few ask about me, electrons sending their questions
with a handful of taps on their phones.

We used to run through the rain,
we used to sit on couches without having to explain,
we ate vegan spaghetti and pasta fagioli,
we traveled over the Cascades for Christmas,
and sometimes played tennis at midnight.

Waiting for the phone to ring, all I get is notifications,
someone has stolen my identity, someone compromised my passwords.
Losing my trajectory I feel my orbit failing,
near the apogee of my revolution I see home-base
rapidly fading.

I have the whole day to think, all day to question my assumptions,
but my mind aches from the outside in
and could use a break
from an old friend or two
who wouldn’t mind meeting for a beer
or a dark brew espresso.

Last night was Halloween and I sat where I could see
the children outside my window
just before they knocked on the door.
One called me by name, and I wish he had stayed.
But his bucket was not full yet. His young voice
stayed with me, a log on the hearth, a distant
ember-infused
smile.

But back to my orbit: I am sorry my tangents
have taken me away from the only solar system I have
every known.
And the distance between us is like a heart slowing down,
memories unmade, and no crew to guide my flight.

Waiting for the apology, and many are waiting for mine.
But I am dust on the shelf. The vise around my brain,
the floods and the rain,
the months and months of isolated pain

See me
waiting by my window again.

My Japanese Camellia

My Japanese Camellia

(“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” Galatians 5:22-23a)

The rain kept me from my outdoor chores,
there was more to burn in my pile of brush loaded
with slowing sap and winter dampness.
My roses overgrew their place during the shortened days
and looked like aliens waving to their home ship.

Just a few months before we gathered apples from our
mini forest floor and from
the highest limbs of the trees planted generations ago.
They are proud and are hurt by the pruning.
We will have a smaller harvest this year
but sweeter. Light can whistle between each limb again.

Even though the rains dominate the hours week after week,
somehow the sun has pulled the life from the roots to the stems.
My Japanese camellia, green and lonesome from the winter till now
offers me the first dusty flower of these early days of Spring;
hung like a forgotten Christmas ornament, pastel pink
against leaves of forest green.

I take a breath and begin the day again.

Unadorned

Unadorned

(“God’s love will come together with his faithful people. Goodness and peace will greet them with a kiss.” Psalm 85:10)

Nature is not afraid to be unadorned.
I took a photo of two trees three days ago
and labeled it beautiful.
The leaves bled red and the
twigs held loosely the pumpkin orange
sticky notes as long as they could.

But walking by again after two nights of wind,
two nights of November,
the trees were bare, save the hangers-on,
gray crepe leaves turning in the breeze.

It is the parallax of beauty, viewed from the vantage
of weeks and months, that sticky green turns to crunchy beige,
while rain and ice take center stage.
It is the puzzle of perception that
stark arms hiding nothing can elicit wonder
as surely as a spring tree flooded with mockingbirds.

I have become raveled with all that is around me.
I am plaited and braided around god and the good earth.
I have my preferences, I like the sun,
I hear something so proud and ordinary it
makes me stop and wonder as much as a butterfly
lunching on a rose.

The rain can be good as the sun at sewing broken hearts
together. The dark can enter the jagged edges where
flesh was cut from flesh, where bruises ooze from barbed
wire trust or speeding through the night without rest.

That God would not fear to be unadorned,
to make dirt his crown, forest roots his footstool,
a sweaty body his home and encrusted feet his transportation.

That, on a bare tree we see his beauty bled red,
and then crepe grey as breath and heartbeat ebbed away.
That God would appear so tragic, frightening, dreadful

And so, absolutely, definitely and without a doubt…

Dead.

That, unlike spring, he did not lie dormant, but…

Died.

And, like spring, he pushed through the crammed earth
to meet us again, still wounded, but more alive than any
of us have ever been.

It is a wonder that God does not fear appearing unadorned.

Waters Run Free

Waters Run Free

(“Behold, I do a new thing: now shall it come forth: shall you not know it? I will even make a way in the desert, and floods in the wilderness.” Isaiah 43:19)

The open space and arid desert land
like fish scales, shale and sand, once
were shallow and wet with ocean;
the fossils in stone testify.

Why not now, I wait and watch and
still find naked fragments of yesterday’s masterpiece;
I watch and wonder why
the same etching in pencil that began the
glorious oil on canvas is now dirt,
rust, oxidation and corrosion.

It was shiny once, it was perfect then,
the pieces fit, the shades were hints
of what the naked eye never sees.

Now I try the same, and must be to blame
for the colors that touch neither fantasy or
reality.

The open space, the empty, the arid air
robs the moisture and leaves it bare. My heart
is just the same, dangling where I left it.

My prayer: and I’ve said it before. My ache:
and I beg it all the more. Winced and lonely
with the air knocked out of me. My plea:
Renew these salty tears and let me laugh again.
My cry: I cry more than I should, and would trade
each whimper for something simpler. My day: Your
friendship and a way to see the

The waters run free from the mountains,
across the desert, to the ocean and over me.

First Verse

First Verse

“It is because of God that you are in Christ Jesus. He became wisdom from God for us. This means that He made us righteous and holy, and He delivered us.” 1 Corinthians 1:30

When the fingernail clouds arise from the west
and the air is still with laughter on its breath
don’t give way, don’t give in, don’t question the moment,
don’t give way to the how or the when; just wait for the rain
as you have time and again.

The Storm of Love

The Storm of Love

(“The crowd was awestruck, amazed and pleased that God had authorized Jesus to work among them this way.” Matthew 9:8 [The Message]”

Quit looking over your shoulder, frowning at life words launched
like water balloons in summer. Color after color, as close as bread
is to butter, the words with truth, the works with touch,
the walking once wounded roll up their begging sacks
and go home the long way, just to see the sights;
walk home the crooked way, just to stretch their legs.

The love that longs to heal is held back by the smallest fingers,
the tsunami of solace is stopped by the smallest “no” from our lips.

But the storm of love keeps rolling, keeps swelling, keeps curling
along the coast, waiting for the smallest opening to discharge its cargo
through one ill-timed inhalation of “yes” without knowing.

So wide the storm front, countries cannot bind its force,
so high its anvil toward the sky, there is no escape here-under,
though some try to run, or dive beneath the furniture,
the tempest is inevitable, and we will lie horizontal,
prone in the path it took to lay us down.
Because

The storm of love keeps rolling, keeps swelling, keeps curling
from least to most. Looking for the minute twinkling, the reflection from eyes
that invited the lightning and said “yes” barely knowing.

I know you were drenched last time you ventured in the rain.
I know the power shook the sod beneath your feet, the lights went
out near 3 in the afternoon and all became dark and the storm seemed
to bite the world whole. I know you saw three branches fallen on their sides,
empty where life had been shortly strung. I know you held hope that
this afternoon-come-midnight might be the end of damp feet and
makeup always running.

We’ve all been afraid of the dark before, lightning makes us jump
higher than our cats, thunder bowls us underground for safety,
hearing reports of floods growling our direction.

What power that makes us turn away and run afraid.
What power, may we quietly say, with gritted teeth hope,
is simply the announcement of

The Love we believed possible
when we picked snapdragons on the way to school.