Family Tree

Family Tree

(“Make friends with your opponent quickly…” Matthew 5:25a)

I am your family tree.
I am roots with your branches,
I am wind to your clouds.
Every chance has passed us by,
and I’ll take this one again to
ask about your anger, to inquire about our pain.

You hold it in, but artlessly;
there is no question the burn you feel.
I may have started it, it may have preceded me,
but all the same,
we should walk ancient paths together,
carry our mutual sorrows without blame.

You begin. I will listen. You’ve carried it
a decade. I’ve heard your complaint. Talk now
where only the trees can overhear; the forest is
safe with trails trod by dozens who backtracked
to conversations
began in the heat but never
subjected to the cool of the day.

You begin. I will not answer. State your case,
but remember, we are the same vine. Sun in sun.
Rain by rain. Seasons when the dew is dormant.
Seasons when the fruit reclaims its sweet-tongued
joy of summer. We are joined, twig to twig,
and the days are getting shorter to speak the
same language again.

You are my family tree,
and so walk with me before the night
puts everything to rest, deletes the words but
leaves the pesty narrative inflicting our hearts.
You begin. And we will share the apples the
orchard provides, sweet as sweet on both of
our tongues.

I Have a Few Leftovers

I Have a Few Leftovers

(“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” Luke 6:20)

Come let us sit together, it is nearly lunchtime.
I have a few leftovers; your choice, ham or tacos.
I’ll pour the wine if you will simply grace me with
your time.

It’s the stretch of the year when the sun awakens the sleeping earth,
when the clouds part for an hour at a time
pulling back the curtains of playful daylight.

My deck is in the sunshine now,
50 degrees feels like 70.
My conversations are softer now,
words come and go like the stellar jays
that light on the fence inspecting our faces
and the moss on the walnut tree.

I am too rich, I know I am.
And I have too much to carry.
I do not believe in poverty,
but I believe in you and the hidden
gems underneath your voice.

You should be hosting me, for you
possess
more than my easy confessions.
But today, let me pretend to be poor.
(Though tomorrow I will turn up the heat again.)

Sometimes I see as through the darkest mirror,
sometimes I see nearly well.
Today I want to hear how
sounds of weighty compassion,
the pipe organs of pain,
lifted you like hymns on a high
Holy Day.

I’ll grab the refried beans, or the horseradish
for the ham. Come sit with me and
remind me who I am.

I Would be Your Shade Tree

I Would be Your Shade Tree

(“Let my soul be at rest again, for the Lord has been good to me.” Psalm 116:7)

You won’t chastise me for my complaint, will you?
Do I come across as needy?
Sometimes I am. I’ve also been accused of impiety.
The steel fingers have poked my mind
for nearly a decade and a half,
I do not mind my occasional breakdowns.
I would attend your crying fit; I’ve seen the playgrounds
where skinned knees and pointed fingers meet.

I would take you to the river,
I would become your constant shade tree,
I would be the silence in your agony,
I would bring you wine mixed with my own tears,
a long pour sparing nothing.
I would bring you my eyes which have seen the same
pain and brittle dehydrating while others play flag
football
in the sun.

You won’t run away from me for my sadness, will you?
Do I come across as morose?
Often I am. I’ve been accused of undiagnosed illnesses
unmindful of the offered cures.
Purely because I know how the light filters through
pulled curtains
when the late summer sun taunts a day’s immobility,
I wait in the darkness with you, sit in the sadness
and view your soul as more lovely than my own.

I would sing the song we wrote,
I would relive the times we walked on slippery hills
just after the first rain.
I would bring the bread you baked while you pieced
together the insanity of darkness again.
I would bring you my hands which have held other
hands
just as curled as your own.
I would let my pain be the beginning of two souls
finding rest simply from
being seen.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

(“To everyone who conquers, I will give permission to eat from the tree of life that is in the paradise of God.” Revelation 2:7b)

Without a table of contents we sometimes circle the day,
a striped tiger stalking our prey, a confused schoolboy
hoping the bully away, a groggy philosopher tilting a new
thought he remembered casting away.

There are too many fences laid out like mazes following
the fall line,
then creeping around the hills in topographical outlines.

One fence-line wraps around the next and higher,
each step closer to the green crest where Manzanita grows;
from there you can see the how the cows have precisely marked
their level paths around the hill.

I was asked once; no, challenged. I was challenged once in a letter,
a question really, meant to be an assault, asking me if, according to
words Jesus’ spoke, whether I had “eyes to see and ears to hear.”

The writers assumed I had gone deaf, I think. Blindness had blackened me.
And, if asked at the time of their writing, what tree paradise might bring me,
I think they would consider that hidden knowledge, and go back to listening
better and
seeing
clearer
than comrades, brothers, or best friends who sat at lunch for hours.

I only listened, didn’t I? You described her, didn’t you? The love, your first,
your darling, who was beauty itself to you. Though I never met her, through
the tears at lunch, I understood why you loved her. And I could see the glow
that made you love her madly.

I skinned my knees beyond belief when you and others briefly questioned
my hearing.

But it’s alright now, time has stopped the bleeding, and the tree is ready
for me to climb. I know you believe I’ve been restored, done the hard work,
fallen more times than possible, yet here I am still in the running. Of all
the ones who questioned my vision,
none confessed their own circles the kept them joyless. It was a puzzle,
that the heard so well, saw so clear, but spoke so sad at the joy of spring.

But it’s alright now, the spring has dawned unheeded. The parallel shafts
didn’t ask permission to bathe the crest of the hill with golden light.
It’s alright now, I’m lost in the circle, I’ve learned the hands that, one
reaching left, one
reaching right,
forgets the circle of straying. Instead
hand on hand, we open the light between us,
left/right holding left/right, we move clockwise around the room
the Round Dance, intertribal and lively.

It’s alright now, I’ve found the movement that suits me,
the music I longed to hear,
and paradise’s tree seen clearly now. It’s alright now, old friend,
we might have been only sleeping.