When Winter Calls

When Winter Calls

(“How fair you are, my love. How fair you are! Your eyes are doves.” Song of Solomon 1:15)

When the rain falls, when winter calls so quietly
we do not hear it at all,
then let us find the songs behind the water-logged
skies.
Let us imagine days before the river freezes,
let us allow the magic of unhindered sight
weave the threads of words
to shine as brightly as Christmas lights strung
late in the season.
And let us wait for the laughter that begins
when children
see puddles as simply

New ways to play.

But then there are days when
the seams come loose and we
are no longer waterproof.
How shall we leave the house,
how shall we present ourselves drenched
and cold?

Do you recall how we laughed while our
frozen fingers thawed?
Let us, ice or storm,
ignore the lectures that ignite our fears and
simply learn

New ways to play.

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.

Holy Amnesia

 

Holy Amnesia

(“I, I am the one who wipes away all your sins. I do this to please myself. I will not remember your sins.” Isaiah 43:25)

I do not want to boast about privileged visions
or untrained prophesies,
but I have sat upon park benches when the sun barely
reached the ground. Alone beneath the sky,
breath like ghost clouds,
my heart with so many holes it contained
the gravity of the universe.

I have seen

Birds approach; gray, rust and deep sea
toy soldiers eyeing the ground. Above
and alone
a woodpecker hunts the bark; castanets
to waken the mourning doves pairing up
for winter’s work. They have been here before.

Taken to the extreme, all I can imagine
(after the tears have dried following my last disaster)
is stillness that entices a robin, then two,
to come within inches of my mud-encrusted shoes.

Do I deserve their friendship? The seafoam and
salt from the beach past the rushes seem to say
everything I need to hear.

I wander from the longshadow bench toward
the ocean chanting creation’s ancient song,
and I sit upon a boulder
while my perforated heart beats the refrain just
beneath my hearing.

The whole universe is reclaimed, renewed,
and I, along with it, inhale the thick evidence
that sand and sun, sin and whims, have been made
One
in holy amnesia.

More Miles of Bad Road

More Miles of Bad Road

(“Therefore, I hated life because the work that was done under the sun was distressing to me. For everything is futile and a pursuit of the wind.” Ecclesiastes 2:17)

Winter roads are the worst; first it rains, then it freezes,
then the asphalt is a plate glass coffee table; nothing visible
except the bent fists of wind that throw dirty dust and snow
across the sliding surface. And we knew there were more miles
of bad road ahead.

And so, in a hurry, we slowed to a crawl. Life was frozen.
Once a river of life for swimming and picnics,
baptisms and reunions,
now as solid as a strong box. There was no
breaking in.

And so we did not stop for the view; what was there to see?
The snow turned to fog, blind as a ghost,
and the most we could do was stop two nights sooner,
brought to a halt by nothing more than vapor in the air.

We wouldn’t have cared,
but we were nearer and nearer the journey’s end
with time running out,
with pain the traffic could not see
(we would have done better to puncture a tire
and hope for a hand along the road).

But with pain higher than the clouds that dropped
winter ice,
and time slower than a glacier
we moved (or did not move) it depends on
your perspective.

It’s easier to wait near the beginning of a journey,
but near the end home is in view,
family waits for you,
friends are looking for you,
and with every hour the trip is slowed
are fewer moments and less joy with the beloved
who you hold in your heart while
you grip, knuckle-white, the steering wheel
meant to take you to a new start
at the old place
where the bed fits your frame
and the voices engrained in your mind
are the very first sounds of the morning.

Any Day

Any Day

(“Look! The winter has passed, the winter rains are over and gone.” Song of Solomon 2:11)

Any day the tides may turn, the storms cease their
constant refrain along the easements of unsettled minds.
The thoughts once frozen can surely thaw,
the bristly sleet will warm to glad sheets of rain,
the day will begin early again.

We have heard the announced arrival, the blizzard
whistling down the gorge, the roar hugging the coulees,
and the doors slamming shut until the icy wind
and stinging snow have built their glistening lean-tos on
every western exposure.

We double down on comforters and hot chocolate.

But the day when the last snow shrivels, the final rain withers,
we hardly remember the hardships of winter. The daffodils
burst like butter, the lilacs perfume the ripening breeze,
while miscellaneous floes beg the inlets and shadows.

The first day of bare-feet, t-shirts and Dairy Queen
erases the hard reckoning that wears out our heavy coats.
The second week in a row we have to water the roses
we know no other season than the one when love is
likely to whisper. The girl with the braids
sees the boy with the braces for the first time since
Spring sang its arrival clear.

Winter Clothing

Winter Clothing

(“He is the one mentioned by the prophet Isaiah, ‘The voice of one, shouting in the desert, Make ready the way of the Lord; straighten His paths!’” Matthew 3:3)

I put my gray sweats on into the heavy morning,
air a slight drip, breath a damp hello on
toward the breakfast-view of the river
from the backside of the one block downtown
restaurant.

It may have been too early, I may have been too slow,
words were like the careful boats who heard the foghorn
repeating the same warning before the island split the channel;
deep north and sandbar south.

We may be hard of hearing, we may be easy talkers,
we may want to say it clearly but the waters drown
the spoken ink we fell asleep knowing.

My coat is cow’s leather, not camel brush;
my breakfast Belgian waffles, never locusts
(but I do eat honey)
and I’d like the road ready, the single block I walk
downtown sometimes early, prepared and ready
for better hearing and quicker feet
to follow, fog or not (and trade my learning for
love’s experiment, a t-shirt and sneakers on the ground.)

I put my gray sweats on, my winter clothing
while the adolescent boy I met was short sleeve
white and jeans. One sentence was a door open from the inside

And the rest of our talk (other men and our inventions)
we tried to open with good intentions. Our words are
stuck, our love perhaps not, but we need practice
to cure the bends from spirit to sound, heart to hello
before we goodbye next time we meet.

The Cold

The Cold

(“He loosens the bonds made by kings and binds a waistcloth about their loins.” Job 12:18)

Here we are upon the Columbia shore,
cold gripping our breath, quiet settling like
frost upon our hearing. Days and years pass
along with memories of rebukes once lasting
past the seasons of snow.

It was your words once bound my head with a
cheesecake shell tightened like lug nuts.
It was your face asking questions out of place
in public where everyone could hear.

I remember it well, and sometimes my gut
recalls what I have forgotten. But the
cold is quiet today, and the frost is likely to
stay just a few days longer.

My sins may circulate in the wind, if not the papers,
and I have read them well, signed them, and bound them
over for your consideration.

I never requested teeth for teeth, just a hand raised
when I asked if you would like to rephrase your questions.

Your sins circulate as well as mine, but there is no
autograph accompanying the crime.

But today, for once, the quietness is no intrusion,
the cold holds no foreboding. Just a silence showing me
my hands are uncuffed,
and a shiver that says I am only shaking because it is
winter.

January Sunday

January Sunday

Likely upon the January grasses, pellets had landed
overnight, translucent and white, pixels random,
in tandem with the dewdrops earlier arrived.

Expectations rise upon the opening skies,
blue unveiled, framed and valanced,
gray and white balanced surrounding the staccato window.

I hear the crunch beneath my soles,
bb’s enmeshing blades of grass and answering
the blackbird’s opening monologue.

No one takes it casually, the ice might make
us a river slide if the temperature falls 2 or 3.
No one dresses up for the occasion, Sunday morning

Waking once more.

Not yet snow, but threatening so, we wait until
the invitation is final.

A Home Country

"A Home Country"

(“Now, people who make such remarks make it plain that they are looking for a home country. Hebrews 11:14)

We have had no snow this winter, no brilliant blanket sparkling
the night.
We have has as much rain as any winter we have rain, and we have
rain two days out of three during the winters when we have rain.

These are not the reasons I miss my home, I would live a lifetime
in a desert, rain-forest or frigid north. I would pluck out friends from
neighbors across the street or found in the corner café asking the same
questions I’ve asked since it entered my mind to ask any at all.

I miss my home (a place I’ve never visited) for its backyard that
can hold all the family I invite for a last minute bbq…bring whatever
you have.

I miss my home (a place I’ve not yet seen) for its fireplace that
functions as a pillow within moments after Uncle Ray has finished
his Thanksgiving meal.

I miss my home (a place I’ve not invented) for its music that
hi-fied from the blonde stereo with the Kingston Trio and
Peter, Paul and Mary before I discovered Iron Butterfly and
the Doors.

I miss my home (a place I fixate with a mixture of memories
and promises) for its music that
was taught on a piano bench later played like duets and a guitar
singing Beatles and Dylan and Blue Moon.

I miss my home mostly for the joy I miss here,
and the sadness I’ve tried so hard to overcome which will become
a place I’ve never visited. Now, truer than any address at all,
and melancholy only a memory now that I’ve arrived
at my Promised Home.

Smoky Midwinter

"Smoky Midwinter"

({The angel} said, “Do you know why I’ve come here to you? I now have to go back to fight against the angel-prince of Persia, and when I get him out of the way, the angel-prince of Greece will arrive.” Daniel 10:20 [The Message])

In five minutes a young lady will arrive to practice a
song we have only sung twice. “In the Bleak Midwinter”,
smoky, poet-folksy, melancholy and richly painted.

I fear she may be late, and fear she will fear the notes
unknown to her,
the timing stinging and fuzzy. And she will bashfully
sing to her toes forgetting her own beauty and
misty middle tones.

I’ll accompany her any way she desires, (although
I’d prefer sparse chords and timing so free it almost
sounds spoken.)

She’ll lead the way, we may need to add
a fifth beat here and there
to the straight time written.

It is time, what we agreed upon, and I do not hear her
walking down the hall. She is so much greater than her
self-written story.

But she just texted me she is on her way,
and she said “lol” when I texted “Yea!”

I am ready for us to play the artist to her vocal liberties
which I hope are
freer than ever with Rosetti’s words tonight.