Do Not Forget Me

Do Not Forget Me

(“Are not five sparrows bought for two copper coins? And yet not one of them is forgotten by God.” Luke 12:6)

April is the fulcrum which winter and spring
balance upon. The hummingbirds come,
one an hour, to taste their sugar water hanging
above the backyard deck.
The eagles are fewer, their prey hiding in the
thickening grass and foliage.
The skies take turns threatening and inviting;
you begin to dream of cloudless days after
just an hour of sunlight between rain showers.
It has left me in between shaded sorrow and
sunlit rapture. My soul seems like a captured bird
which the clouds could not hold.
My mind feels disconnected and can only think
of napping as a cure for lethargy.
My brain is weary of masking itself from the
critiques it has always paid attention to. But I
am caged
by my own disengagements. I am so far down
the road that
I am the old one in the room. I’ve roped myself
so tightly
that my wings have atrophied despite my desire to fly.
But I can remember, somewhere between the age
of accountability and mid-puberty,
a boy who stumbled between whirlwind dancing
and curious crushes. Do not forget me,
boy of the past,
and name for me again the secret things
you’ve kept silent for too long. Do not forget me,
uncreated one, on these secondary days.

So Talk to Me

So Talk to Me

(“Are not five sparrows sold for two small coins? Yet not one of them has escaped the notice of God. Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows.” Luke 12:6-7)

And so I suppose, against all odds,
despite swamps and tears,
I must be in my Father’s care.

Fastened to this turning ball by
the weakest force,
the fridge is stocked,
my clothes are washed,
my hair is combed,
but the weak force is too strong
to escape to the place where
my heart would be full.

I’d call someone, but tears would flow,
or I’d compose myself and report “I’m fair”
though I’m caught in the doldrums with
the slow carousel of days turning ‘round me
while I wait for a sign of His affection.

Here I am, this hour of this day,
and, though I’ve sat among friends
with my feet in the ocean,
I confess, tears would flow whether
warming on crowded beaches
or stuck in the suburbs watching
strangers walk by.

My heart has always ached; I wish there was a remedy.
My hand has always shaken; I wish no one could see.
So talk to me, speak the words that will take me home.
Write me poetry, sing to me, hold my hand until it sleeps
silently.

I read of love and wait for the Father to meet me at the mailbox,
to call my on my smartphone,
to knock on my door and
just one time more,
fill my heart as full as

Everyone else’s seems to be.