Migrant

Rest your weary mind
My love
Rest your stricken heart

Permit time
Permit soonness
Permit fondness promised

When seasons change, as they will
When notes become no more
Permit the absence, too

God Glow

Pancakes on a Sunday morning were never supposed to be so loud.
The only sounds I’d predicted were newspapers unfolding, rustling pages after an appropriate period of time.
Harp-laced sunshine musically poured from the orange juice pitcher to your glass, my son.
Cozy, fluffy, buttermilk breaths, exhaling at long last, I wanted for us.

But the week had gotten the better of me.
Instead you heard man’s demands and the echoes of entitled children.
Screeching chairs against cold floor tiles and anxiety-producing forced air overhead.
Waste and plastic and a bit of excess.

But there was the blessed color, wasn’t there?
Tell me you noticed, beautiful.
The smiles of the Sunday workers, employed by capitalism, but still genuine and holding their own.
The crowd beside us in Sunday best, good news and gospel aglow.

Brothers and sisters we are.
Take that from the morn, my child.
This lovely, winding, seasonal scene of our lives.
And the time we were given and allowed ourselves.

img_8577

Unbecoming

Ponytail Summers

Before your very eyes

Quickly became the whirlwind of Fall’s shame

Whence soon it was apparent 

You’d walked into Winter’s doors where no one cared

In the busyness 

Of preparing for a most dry Spring indeed 

Fall

That Winter and Spring 

That glorious Summer

Those Days!

When I, with wings on my feet

And fire in my belly

Strode contented nonetheless 

Though My Best Friend

Walked ahead sniffing and pulling 

Whimpering, barking and biting

That Fall