Like a sash it opens just enough
to let the mist saunter down and in.
This morning breaks and the valley
receives its due covering.
A hovering of this evanescent spirit,
spread in and though the crowd.
Diverse fog splitters rising toward
the heavens, trees reaching for the sky.
I wish I were 200 feet tall.
I would kick the midget clouds
and brush my open palms
along the crown of oaks.
I would lay in the meadow
and make fog angels.
I would summon as much childhood
imagination as I could and play a while.
And I wonder if God would be sitting on a bench, watching, smiling at the childlike freedom.
Caps of cumulus grab the first light
and float like golden vanilla scoops.
Blue grey fitted sheets crawl
beneath the infusion of pastels.
The sun brush strokes a new day.
When I close my eyes the leaves,
combed with cooler breezes,
mimic waves from Lake Michigan.
The blue noise settles my soul
and I receive this gift of Another.
“Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed,
because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness.
‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul,
‘Therefore I hope in Him!’”
Lamentations 3:22-24 The New King James Bible
The sun yawned it’s roundness.
The cardinals sung unto the Lord,
and the stars faded into the brighter blues.
Another dark night of the soul receded.
She lies sipping on air
and rolls ice chips with her tongue.
A foot tapping and arm twitch
under linen veneer.
She, in her bed,
can’t even get up on the wrong side.
But she whispers sweet everythings
in our ears.
She sleeps in pieces
and heavenly peace will come.
Time stutters and mumbles
while we circle her.
The waiting room cools
as the mourning star moves over.
Evening vespers settle in
and we tuck her in again.
For My Mother.
© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.