Intersection of Grace

On the long road
between then and now
highways of violence,
intersections of grace,
messages from the world
of the broken, hopeless
to go on, while the earth
sings beneath a night sky
electric with memory.
We belong to every body,
every soul
bearing the weight
of fractured desire.
We all limp together
though we fight
and shout our anger,
as if we were strangers,
as if we didn’t know.
The antidote awaits
in the deep folds
of an ancient blanket
ready to warm us
through the frozen winter,
ready to remind,
even terrify us
with the knowledge
of who we might be.




Hummingbird Wings

I scan the water like eagle,
looking for the tide within the tide,
her presence in the sea.
When she asks what I want
I will say to be here
and she will smile,
finding beauty in the wave,
knowledge in silence,
joy on hummingbird wings.



photograph by Cedric Fox


To the Horizon

There may be a day
more promising than today
sometime in the future
but why wait?
We look to the rising,
put sails to the wind
though weather be dark
and ominous.
This craft of ours
sturdy yet slight,
carries faith as fuel,
direction by the stars.
Our ropes strain and break
yet we mend on and continue.
Of course we can be foolish,
commanded by a higher regard,
but we find currents
to guide past shoals,
winds to steer into open water.
Storm fronts will not deter,
nor the lack of safe harbor.
There is a port
sketched on the map
we carry in our hearts.
To the horizon we sail.




Tendril of the Oak

Settled in below the morning fog
within the motion and noise,
I sit quietly gazing
at gray skies and summer green
as an old stone or rough-barked tree
finds center in the earth,
patience within unrest.
Angels protect this silence
for it roots to the heart of the world,
joining those caverns to the light above
and one slim tendril reaching out with peace
on the great oak of life.




Wearing Many Colors

Sunlight on rain soaked trees,
sounds of the city awakening,
letting go into the new day.
There are always troubles,
ask anyone who’s farmed.
Progress and promotion
are salesmen’s words.
The earth isn’t selling,
she doesn’t profit.
She stores in winter dark
and gives in spring green,
yields to summer sun,
returns with gold in autumn.
See her in the glistening dew
the lilt of first light breezes.
We could be sad or broken
by the ways we suffer
yet four winds are blowing
and the day rises to meet us.
Wearing our many colors
isn’t it time to ride out once more
and give the earth our joy?



Stained glass by Linda Ethier Studios