haiku//june
one
today the whispers
took the shape of a podcast
and an email, as
if you, God, wanted me
to have coffee with you, and
trust my own small voice.
two
what a joy it is
to imagine that some of
the people who might
be most important
to me, I haven’t met, that
soft womb’s potential.
it is a strange and
beautiful world, this thought, this
imagination
four (a thousand fiddlers)
he said once to name
your days, so I scratch the day’s name
at the top of this
entry, and let my
mind wander at how the years
pass, heralded by
sunrise and sunset;
like a prayer, lullaby,
sung softly into
the unforgiving
dawn, desperate to own the day
sliding from my hands
I scratch “friday”
onto this page, hoping it
makes a difference.
five
is it worth it to
be still for a moment and
listen to the trees?
six (after luci shaw, 1)
I am seasonal,
just like the rose bush or the
ice cream shop or the
way the sunrise smells
in the summer, the dew in
love with waking up.
seven (after luci shaw, 2)
I am seasonal
just like how the sunrise makes
the tree catch fire
for one glorious
moment. nothing’s forever.
maybe that’s the point.
eight (moses on a tuesday, after zephaniah 3)
and then she said, “it
is worth it to sow good oats!”
who knows? maybe in
your soft wanderings
you will come to savor the
taste of that spring wind
or see that the bush
is not just a bush—maybe
it is burning up
as if it is the
spirit in your midst, come in
through ordinary
holes in the fence you
built, and, as your pen pauses
for once, you realize
maybe it’s always
been burning, waiting for you
to pay attention.
nine (moses on a wednesday)
behold! the goodness
is all wrapped up in heartbreak--
turn aside and see!
ten
even though we stuffed
the holes in the wall, death still
manages to slip
in through the cracks, thin
as air and just as hard to
grasp, like a dense fog
seething from the earth
as the sun sets, settling
into his sad eyes.
we want to deny
it but the fumes are leaking
in under the door.
twelve
representation
matters—there is always more
than one lone story!
thirteen (psalm, midweek)
devastation reigns
it seems—nothing is ever
all the way better.
how long will you wait?
is your kingdom really here?
come and make us new!
fourteen (psalm 134)
I feel as if we
are servants standing by night
in your house, simply
sitting on the stoop,
staring, begging the sun to
crest the horizon—
while we wait, we sing
of memories, miracles
with the night’s crooning
melody, sad songs
but beautiful ones too, slow
rubato like rain
fifteen (grandma, one)
she whispers back at
us in noses, jawlines, veins,
kind eyes, in laughter,
loud and unashamed,
floating in and out of
her daughter’s stories.
seventeen (grandma, two)
the warm, easy days
all dressed up in a yellow skirt
carefree and twirling,
whistling, watching
her eat ice cream, snuggled close
whispering in the dark
eighteen
noticing is the
prayer. maybe someday or
maybe never.
nineteen (juneteenth)
may we learn to see
and to ask for forgiveness,
to acknowledge that
we built barriers
instead of bridges, to tear
them down alongside,
to listen first, to
stop perpetuating pride
and willingly step
into injustice,
great and subtle, humbled and
soft, with empty hands—
to keep fighting for
equity in this broken
world we all call home.
twenty (psalm 139)
if you crawl to the
darkest corner of your heart
or weep beneath your
favorite blanket,
or if you taste the sweetness
of delight, i see
you. the darkness
you are so afraid will hide
you simply will not.
twenty-one
o great paradox
the heavy/light of my life,
teach me to hold both
twenty-two
today the dust storm
blew grey dirt through the valley,
the air thick like smoke
and as tiny drops
of rain like mercy slip through
the haze I wonder
how long can we go
on like this? what will remain
of my tiny life?
twenty-three
I am on the edge
of that blissful place where light
softens, the worries
in my chest fade out
of earshot, the idea—or
truth?—just almost brave
enough to sit down
with me, or dance in far off
fields where we both so
long to go. but then
my fingers, greedy with praise,
fall into habit,
tearing my soul from
the stream as they scroll, again,
staring down into
the dull sky of glass
while my body cries “go back!
I want to wake up!”
twenty-four (firetrucks and sprinklers and grown-up inhibitions)
they opened their arms
wide, tilting smiling faces
into the spray, like
nothing matters but
the sheer delight of water
falling on their heads.
I stand there, laughter
turning into tears, watching
just remembering.
O, to be a kid
again! The ordinary
so full of magic.
twenty-six (morning rhythms)
oh may I delight
in you like I delight in
slurping cold water
from the hose, or like
eating peanut butter from
the jar, like watching
milk dance in swirling
patterns in my tea. O may
it be that simple!
twenty-seven
watch how the dew on
the grass evaporates in-
to the hot air
so our prayers for
rain rise up to you, every
last desperate drop.
twenty-eight (will you believe it? will i?)
in your soul, there is
a worthiness beyond what
you can imagine
because, the truth is,
you were loved before you did
anything at all.
this truth eludes me;
so often I forget, too.
do you believe it?
can you? I wish
you might, brave, frightened friend. O,
will you believe it?
twenty-nine (psalm 147)
the land mourns as hands,
holy and gentle, wrap the
softest bandages
around our broken
hearts; a mystery, this pain-
filled, grace-filled healing.
thirty (women by the well)
am I brave enough
to come to the well and be
seen by you there? to
rest near you, hear
you speak? to let down my guard
and admit I can’t
do this alone, that
I am worn out and dried up
and need a break? to
sit by the ocean
and let the waves fall without
trying so hard to
describe them? to love
them simply for existing—
just as you love me.
p.s.
You may have noticed it’s been awfully quiet around here lately. That’s because my soul and my spirit have needed a bit of that: quiet. After some very fun but exhausting projects in April, and as we start to shift regarding the pandemic, I’ve been feeling weary and simply worn out. I’m taking the summer at a slower pace, and clearing space for clarity and refreshment. So don’t worry. I’m still around, and I’ll be back more regularly soon, but for now, I’m just taking time to be filled up. I’m praying that your summer is filling you up, too. Don’t be afraid to pause for it!
