haiku//september

one

I like to think each
morning that my words have weight, 
some days like a smooth 

stone in your enclosed
palm, other times like heavy
eyelids on a long 

flight, welcomed and free, 
some days like the morning dew
evaporating. 

three

tonight it was a 
sunken blueberry cake that 
cracked and smelled like hope.

four

the place i have loved
has changed like a tree shedding
it’s garments. My heart

groans in my chest, breaks
the wind surrounding me. yes
everything has changed.

behold, the new thing
coming is a painful good; 
the death must come first. 

five

somehow all i need
is to be seen, one small star
in this great big sky. 

six (fragile like a bomb, after RBG)

slowly their petals 
unfurl, like a shivering, 
shuddering sunburst,

the low-humming chill
of this brave new world brushing 
against their soft cheeks

as their small, worried
body sways, dances, clings to 
the shuddering earth.

still they stretch, reach up—
not fragile like a flower, 
fragile like a bomb. 

eight (lament)

there is room enough 
for the sighing, for the choked
back tears, and the ones 

that crest over the 
edges. there is room enough 
for the wordless grief 

that clings to the soles
of your shoes like cement. yes, 
there is room enough.

nine (loving opposition)

rest your heavy hand
on my shoulders--push me back. 
look into my eyes

and tell me to breathe. 
in loving opposition 
hold me, teach me to 

give you all my weight
and trust that you will hold me 
upright, drenched in light. 

ten

after the rainstorm,
the sweet air rose up to us
from the broken earth 

and out of my lungs 
as I shrieked with glee upon 
seeing the mountains.

I've been so used to 
the haze, I’d forgotten what
the mountains looked like. 

thirteen (quiet)

it is the quiet
things that hold onto our hearts, 
that mold them, that whirl

them around again, 
messy and malleable, soft
touches from your hand; 

gentle laughter, warm
kitchens, dogs barking, prayers
seeping through the walls. 

seventeen (watch how meg ryan does it!)

maybe this time I can 
be brave enough, soft enough 
to look myself in 

the eye and tell the 
whole honest truth, whispering 
my dreams in the dark. 

eighteen (isaiah 1)

our roots have grown dry 
in the garden we chose not
to water. fire

blazes around us
and so we ignite, dried up
and unquenchable. 

nineteen

how do you look at 
us, frantic and terrified
and still choose to step 

into our world, still
holding out your lavish love, 
your true forgiveness? 

twenty

look! I’m a mess, just 
a page of words and scribbles!
a work in progress!

twenty-one (i don’t know why i’m crying!)

a holy moment 
as you reveal yourself to 
me through my own tears

twenty-two (psalm 51)

o lord, when you come
knocking, may I open the 
door of my secret 

heart. may I hold out
my fragile cup, satisfied
with its specific

shape, the container 
of my body willing to 
embrace it, to live 

the life you whisper 
in my inward being—o 
fill me to the brim

twenty-three (how you love us)

1. 
you read me over 
and over, cherish me like 
a favorite poem, 

dog-eared in the top 
corner, worn with familiar 
use, held in your hand. 

2. 
How you love us more
than the stars, or the sands--who 
tell their own story 

of your abundance
simply, softly, who don’t try 
so hard to be loved. 

twenty-five (prayer after the equinox)

teach me how to live
in the line breaks, the turning,
the intake of breath 

after the song’s end, 
the bookmarked page, the empty cup,
the growing shadows,

the wisdom of the 
secret heart, the soft poetry 
of the quiet place. 

twenty-six (jesus in the canyon, 1)

you know each time I 
wake with my jaw clenched, you catch 
the unwilling tears

leaking from my heart. 
I am afraid again, still, 
and your heavy hand 

rests on me, the weight 
on my chest reminding me 
you’re here, and you loved 

me, before I did 
anything at all. I have 
never lacked a thing.

twenty-seven (jesus in the canyon, 2; after Denise Levertov’s poem, “Window-Blind”)

“much happens when we’re
not there,” she writes, like that tree
everyone talks of 

that falls in the woods, 
spreading her seeds that slip 
in under the soft soil, 

her soul moving in 
through the windows in the leaves
trying to grow well—

and all this while we 
don’t notice. then, during long 
sunsets and snowfalls

there is the murmur 
of the seed opening, no 
roots yet, like a dream, 

like God not in the 
tree tops, but crouched nearby in 
the dirt, witnessing. 

and all this while we 
sigh, drift, fret, wait, so unwell, 
so preoccupied. 

twenty-eight (jesus in the canyon, 3)

over my shoulder 
the liar watches, taunts, mocks
as my ballpoint pen 

races down the page, 
trying to outrun his mouth
with a wall of words. 

still, the fear is loud 
and cuts deep. inside me, a 
voice, straight ahead and 

deeper still, singing 
over and over, like an
echo: i love you. 

twenty-nine (jesus in the canyon, 4)

be not afraid to 
dive down into the deepest 
canyon, or sink to 

the darkest places
of the sea—even there I 
will walk beside you. 

thirty (embrace)

it happens the same 
way each year, and still I am 
left breathless by the 

trees full of fire, 
their delicate, passionate 
wild death, so soon. 

(Jesus in the Canyon poems inspired by singer-songwriter Ellie Holcomb)

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If this is your first time here, welcome! This is the 9th installment of a 12-part series of haikus I’ve been writing over the course of 2021. If you like what you’re reading, please feel free to share. To receive the next part of the series (and other future posts and promotions), subscribe to my email list here. Don’t worry— I won’t bombard you, I promise!

For those of you who have been following along so faithfully this year, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your support and love means more than you know. I can’t believe there is only one quarter left of the year. If there is anything I can be praying for you about, if you have questions or comments, or just want to say hello, please feel free to comment/reach out to me here!

Blessings, and see you next month!