frayed hems and fringes (on lament)
on the thick, angry sadness in the air and in our bodies, our deep longing for renewal, the questions that feel too honest to ask, an invitation to step into our own story, and the spiritual practice of lament
on being late, or, process walls
an essay about the the growth that begins in the darkness of the soil, a poet, sycamore fig trees, and working through the fear of falling behind in your own story
that’s all (matthew 14)
you know what?
it’s a miracle, the perennial daring
of the bud to step into the sun in late February, after
a long sleep of subconsciously hoping
unforced rhythms of grace
The sun was setting as I waited in my car in the parking lot of my friend’s apartment complex, jotting down some ideas for a poem in my journal. I looked up as two boys, probably about ten years old, came racing down to the dumpsters, laughing, hauling their massive bags of trash above their heads and hurling them into
winter camp
I cannot recall a single word he spoke, but I
remember the clouds in the window at the top of the chapel;
how they, like great masses of gladness, leapt
from one joy to another, shape shifting
when you say “wait”
when you say “wait,” is it like how
I stood in line at the coffee shop for
forty-five minutes
waiting
for a hot chocolate they forgot to make?
the ape and the donkey
a poem after C.S. Lewis’ book, The Last Battle
…O, how I want
to find you in the middle of everything…
ash wednesday, early
a poem for Ash Wednesday, which occurred this last week, and marks the beginning of Lent, the forty days of fasting before the celebration of Easter, in which we remember, mourn, consider, draw in, and draw near
