Stillness

I think I think of Thee

as I traverse mortality.

I pray in the cracks and crevices

of Have. Do. Be.

I catch a glimpse or two of light

in my frenzied overscheduled flight

if all the starts align just right

and I hold my spiritual antennae

at the precise and perfect height.

I think I hear Thee speak

between the cackling chaos of my overburdened week

above the toll and bang and squeak

beside the faucet’s steady leak

behind the random ramblings of this

mumbling mother/geek.

I sing I serve

I teach I pray

I work I clean I write

I pray

I kneel I rise

I fall and say:

Father!

and He breathes the breath of life in me

He whispers, “Still.

Be Still.

Still.

Be.

Aah, Stillness.

Now I see.

They Twain

He breaks my heart

a dozen times a day

in a thousand careful

careless, brutal, bruising

blinding ways.

But the way he picks the pieces up,

cradled gently in work-rough fingers?

And kisses them back together?

The shimmery forgiveness of it

lingers.

Burdened

He rises early

just to watch the sun rise--

just to feel the light of morning

warm across his tired eyes.


He drags his heavy heart

like a loaded pack

from peak to summit

leaving nothing

learning nothing

taking nothing from it.

He sighs.

He doesn’t understand.

He misses

Son Rise.