I need rain, lazuli skies suggesting sweaters, coloring trees, the unashamed cry of flowers, fat snow, and even, on some days, the clean heat of summer. The seasons whisper Gentle and Trust.
In winter, Mother Mary holds her naked Son. And again in spring.
But the sun has wings. Hair grays, eyes wrinkle, my sons revel in strength, my daughters grow in beauty, and my wife is no longer young. And though I say that she is beautiful, she doesn't hear.
And I grow wintry. My back is cold and my eyes are weak. Less than I should be. Less father, less husband. More doubt than faith. Less poet. I am poor. And I am poor. And my wife, though she says that I am more, I do not hear, for the wind is in the trees.
Leaves pirouette to the ground. Oranges, browns, reds, and yellows grace dead grass.
The world is old, I say. And tired.
Babbling brooks and crocus buds answer me.
My faith is gone, I say. I am lost, I say. And dead.
Golden-leaved pecan trees whisper Peace and Good, Peace and Good.
Ah, Sweet Christ! I need faith. Ah, pardon and peace. Ah, body and blood. I need the green days. I need the purples and the reds. I need the white days.
In winter, Mother Mary enthrones her Son. And again in me. She whispers Yes.
Life pours out of her naked Son's side. Be drunk with Me.
6 comments:
scott, that was brilliant.
Beautiful stuff, brother.
Seems you've been heeding the counsel of John Paul the Great.
Incidentally, I'm still waiting to hear what kind of pie you had on your birthday. These are important things.
I love this. It's beautiful, brilliant, honest, yearning, hopeful, loving and passionate.
KEEP writing.
Hey, Guys. Thanks so much for your encouragement.
Dan, it was a deep dish apple pie. Unfortunately, it was not homemade. But it was still very good.
Deep dish apple pie--good choice, and it always seems to me that when you bring deep dish into play, a store bought pie ends up tasting better than homemade.
Keep writing poetry--it's good stuff.
Post a Comment