Poetry

In the mornings, dried hydrangeas strike up against the white siding of neighboring houses ...

But if God were gentle, here's what would become us: bluest sky, the sun-warmed porch, both beholding a glorious afternoon ...

Three teen deer have begun of late to make daily dusk-time stops out back ...

What's woven then in broken times is this: a blessing . . .

an open window, white curtains attempting to escape windward . . .

We praise the beautiful, the lovely, the kind. We love those who love us back, that which pays homage to our place in the universe.

I want to leap like a raging fire, like the lame man who was healed.

The upright scrawl of leaf cleaving last to the fig tree I mistake each daybreak for the bird-messenger, the one which I am sure will come flare the mouth of morning.

Orbits have pulled us to this moment. Blessed are you who call me out of darkness to feed me low-hanging light, waxed amber and plump.