haiku//may

under the fig tree

one

I’m back on the ledge
and I’m drowning in that fear
that my hopes are too

high, but you promised me 
that I’m not on a tightrope
because I have wings 

two (amos 3)

are you listening
to the prophets revealing 
all the lord’s secrets?

three

somedays I wonder:
“If I had made a different 
choice, what would my life 

look like?  would I have
someone’s ring on my finger? 
my job? this writing?”

and I want to see 
it, catch some tiny glimpse, but
then my dog rests her 

soft head on my lap, 
her eyes looking up into 
my crying, red ones, 

loving me, which, I 
suppose, is really all that
matters, anyway.  

four (debussy)

once, his hands fluttered 
over the keys like sunlight 
playing on water 

he stopped, wrote something 
down, and re-began, the moon
in the piano 

conjured up with chords
and rhythms. he stopped, years passed, 
and then, I played it. 

five

without you I’m a 
defunct sprinkler, watering 
everything but grass. 

six (under the fig tree)

we are not always
what we now are. the prophet
tended sycamore

fig trees before he
opened his mouth. until then, 
the lord saw him there,

under the fig tree, 
asked him to rejoice, watered
the grass, and waited. 

nine (it is a simple thing)

it is a simple 
thing to panic about car parts, 
taxes, discounts, socks. 

it is a simple 
thing to be satisfied 
with holy things 

it is a simple 
thing to remember life is
a gift to be lived, 

to yolk yourself to
the light burden and ask what 
you will do with it, 

to let yourself be 
covered in Jesus’ dust 
from walking so close. 

eleven (refreshment)

this desert blisters 
our body and teaches us 
to learn to trust that 

your well doesn’t run
dry, even if the water
is inside the rock. 

twelve (story)

there is no story 
I can tell but the one in-
between my fingers

covering my hands 
with dirt, there to be planted
one word at a time. 

sixteen (purpose)

I’ve spent my whole life
searching for some elusive 
gift, dream, answer to 

the mysterious 
questions I can’t stop asking
but today it was

simple. “you’ve been sent 
as a gift,” he said. “arrive—
you have the kingdom!” 

seventeen

do I trust you in 
a selfish way? do I hate
the sycamore tree? 

eighteen (trying to believe it)

and then god said, “this 
is my beloved son, with
whom I am well-pleased”

before Jesus had done 
anything at all, before 
he taught, healed the sick, 

wept, or died, even. 
god loved him before all that, 
loved the quiet man

carving wood as much 
as the teacher on the hill. 
you don’t have to do

anything to be
loved like that, because, simply, 
you already are. 

nineteen (jonah)

this morning i am 
jonah, bitterly looking
down on the people 

i don’t want to love. 
“are you upset that i love 
them?” you ask me. “do

you do well to be
angry?” I want to cross my 
arms like a stubborn

child and cry as 
my plant withers, needing just
as much forgiveness. 

twenty-one (pouring rain! in may!)

maybe this chapter
starts with standing in the rain
under umbrellas 

and laughing, crazy, 
wind-blown, and wild, this time
in love and content. 

twenty-two (trying to be okay)

no words yet but the 
glow of an idea in that
shivering silence. 

twenty-three (my yoke is easy)

tonight I am cain 
with my baskets of fruit, or 
martha, all sweaty

anxious, and flustered,
too many things in my hands
and they’re all spilling 

out and everywhere
and I can’t figure out how to 
let go of it all, 

how to yoke myself 
to you, who cares more about 
listening, slowly

than the meal burning
now in the oven. how can 
you trade me, worries

for your light burden, 
sacrifice for song, terror
for your abundance? 

twenty-four (my bag! is gone!)

I lost my bag and 
now everything is dropping 
and I want to cry!

it’s this rough burlap
bag full of worries and now
it’s so hard to hold 

them all and they are 
scattering behind me like
stupid breadcrumbs. or 

maybe you took my 
bag away because you want 
to hold all of this 

and maybe I don’t 
need a new bag, I just need 
to trust you with it. 

but can you tell me 
why this letting go is so 
incredibly hard? 

twenty-five (abraham on a tuesday)

up on this mountain, 
drunk on fear, asked to tie up 
what I love and kill

it. my shaking hand 
jerks downward. will you stop me? 
or must i do this? 

twenty-seven (hide-and-go-seek)

you say, “seek me where
I may be found.” what kindness 
that you are hidden 

everywhere, and found
anywhere, always calling 
from your hiding spot. 

twenty-eight (“what if this view is all for you?”)

once, when i was small
i thought the sunset’s pink clouds
were god’s gift to me. 

tonight, the sun lit
up the field like wildfire, and 
that was for me, too. 

twenty-nine

show me show me show
me! I squeal like a child
with a present held

high above their head. 
can’t you just show me? when can
I know what’s in there? 

although the real gift 
is showing up, here, where you 
always seem to be. 

thirty

today I stuttered 
over my words when called on 
to read the psalmist’s 

poetry, like she 
used to. it’s the little things
that make your heart hurt. 

thirty-one (last day of may, can you believe it)

life passing by in 
flurries of ordinary, 
everyday moments.