4 June 2006, 3:15 PM
We lay under that tree again,
only this time it wasn’t Maille.
Little Jacob had the time of his life
wiggling his toes, grabbing my nose,
smiling at the faces I made
as his chilly little fingers found my face.
Maille found us, as if she remembered
that very spot a year earlier.
She plopped down beside us,
said my name and smiled, delighted
at how wonderful the wind felt to her toes.
Tree gave us shade, wind cooled our skin,
leaves danced and whispered in light
of a blue sky day, while great white cloud
ships sailed the deep.
A year ago today, I lay here with Maille
waiting for a storm that came
just as it had promised.
It came and thrashed about,
turned my world inside-out,
but left me whole and yearning
for just one more moment
beneath the shade of an oak tree
with whatever child saw fit to stare
at the azure sky
through the shimmering emerald canopy
and dream with me.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Brilliance
30 May 2006, 1:20 PM
Brilliance is exhausting;
tempts one to lay down the quill,
even when she longs to write,
against the will.
So few the labors which meet the mark;
lay open mind and heart
in such a way that those who read
as well as she who writes
leave the page with vision clearer,
within and without self alike.
Brilliance is exhausting;
tempts one to lay down the quill,
even when she longs to write,
against the will.
So few the labors which meet the mark;
lay open mind and heart
in such a way that those who read
as well as she who writes
leave the page with vision clearer,
within and without self alike.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
This Side of Reflection
27 May 2006, 9:52 PM
Alone at the reservoir
Black as pitch against a fading sky,
the treeline reflects
upon the surface of the Reservoir.
A latticework of ripples
makes its way across the waters,
blurring all in its path,
muddling clear-cut lines
so that only their vaguest forms remain.
Even light is skewed;
made something other than it is
as the waters dance and play
against the dark,
beneath the wind,
above unseen currents,
encompassing the flick of fin;
movement of ken.
It occurs to me that this is how we see:
dimly; a reflection upon moving waters.
Few things are certain...
but reflection suggests form,
form entails purpose,
purpose begs volition,
volition is bound to One who wills;
who can still the waters,
clarify vision
this side of reflection.
Alone at the reservoir
Black as pitch against a fading sky,
the treeline reflects
upon the surface of the Reservoir.
A latticework of ripples
makes its way across the waters,
blurring all in its path,
muddling clear-cut lines
so that only their vaguest forms remain.
Even light is skewed;
made something other than it is
as the waters dance and play
against the dark,
beneath the wind,
above unseen currents,
encompassing the flick of fin;
movement of ken.
It occurs to me that this is how we see:
dimly; a reflection upon moving waters.
Few things are certain...
but reflection suggests form,
form entails purpose,
purpose begs volition,
volition is bound to One who wills;
who can still the waters,
clarify vision
this side of reflection.
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George MacDonald
"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."
