When the angel
comes to you,
cease your chattering,
surrender your resolve,
and listen for
the mystery
Nancy Compton Williams
I never willed
these forty days
in the wilderness,
tempted by
the demons
of accustomed scars.
But no other way
leads home.
Do not call it
a loss--
rather,
a silent space--
a signature
in the sediment
becoming ground
you rest upon.
When your past
comes to live
in the woods
behind your house,
you must go
to the window,
forgive yourself
once again,
and welcome
the creature
that suns himself
on the sill.
Overhead,
wild geese
wing their way
to a farther shore.
At their call
we leave
our fearful lives
and follow.
I heard you blooming
in the sun's crescendo,
your sepals stretching,
petals open
in an ecstasy of hue--
the overture of Eden.
Winnowing fear,
restless, feral winds
surge in my mind,
shifting directions,
gathering force.
I mistake it all
for chaff --
husks of failure
and deprecation.
But this wind resounds
from the ancient world
and release has always
been gleaned
from grains of doubt.
Relinquish the self.
Surrender disdain.
With every breath
release the Light
that shines
through brokenness.
I must learn
the calligraphy
of egret stance,
poised on a word
that lies beneath
the weaving current,
steady, still.
I Corinthians 13:12
Press your face
against the darkness.
Own the countenance
reflected by the pane.
You are known
on both sides
of the glass.