Foot Fall

I’m growing into old.

Settle into chairs with a plop.

Rise out of them two-handed,

thankful for forethought of

choosing one with armrests.

*

There are creaks in the

coming and going now.

Sometimes it’s the cracks

in the wood—loose bolts.

Mostly it’s me, groaning.

*

In the effort of defying gravity,

I am grateful for movement,

even the slow kind.

More deliberate liberation

is humbly declared.

*

There is a beauty in deceleration.

Less distraction, more traction.

Reminders to stay low, pay attention

to where the next step will fall,

and in the falling I can,

by grace, take one more.  

Sunday Psalm

Day broke me open,

Birds telegraph each other.

I hear.

The three day headache gone.

The prevention was a vile

Of virus.

A second poke became

a prod of vulnerability.

A fever.

My swelling arm an evidence

Of the world getting under

My skin.

I kneel with open face

And a thrumming heart

Of thanks.

“Praise the Lord! Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good! His faithful love endures forever.” Psalm 106:1

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I Love Peanut Butter

Like spiraling a spatula

round the bottom of a

peanut butter jar,

 

so am I each morning

in a futile attempt of

scraping in hopes of a

 

slather of meaning on a Monday.

Why is the wholeness

divided into seven daze?

 

Does a heart beat me, ever?

Are there breaths beneath me?

When do steps become strides?

 

I lick the spatula with gratitude,

wave it like a wand,

and pray for grace and mercy.

 

For every day is Monday, really.

Twelve Minutes on Color

It is the contrast in color which illuminates autumn. Looking at one tree’s vibrant blushing brightens my imagination and appreciation of God’s artwork in the midst of the work of transformation. When I pan back and take in a bigger frame of color against color a greater wonder fills me.

We live on hill, and from the back deck a valley of autumn’s attitude can be taken in. We moved here five years ago this month, and we are grateful for the view.

It makes me think of the possibility of unity in diversity. God must believe it too, with this big fat metaphor of fall. This one line of poetry, the tree line, gets me thankful, thankful for my eyes.

Outta time.

Sun Day

Birth again the sun,

may it crown the edge of the earth,

and spill glory and cast shadows

behind all it paints.

 

May we remember from where

this light bursts and fills

the land in golden revelation.

May we squint in gratefulness.

“God makes a huge dome

For the sun—a superdome!

The morning sun’s a new husband

Leaping from his honeymoon bed,

The daybreaking sun an athlete

Racing to the tape.

 

That’s how God’s Word vaults across the skies

From sunrise to sunset,

Melting ice, scorching deserts,

Warming hearts to faith.”

Psalm 19:4-6 The Message

 

 

Breathtaking

Just above the tree line

wind scrapes and sifts.

I pray for its falling

through to the forest floor

where air crawls low

like a dog’s nose

picking up the scents

of loam.

 

Those pains we shed

which enrich the soil,

and peat our soul.

Thank you for the

ground our feet of clay

impress, that level

Grace we tread

with each breath.