looking at things, more things, and pictures of things

has closed my eyes to looking into

for a time,

but the thought, that acknowledgement, has been the transition

back to awareness

of myself, of what is beautiful, of what is valuable,

of what is desirable.

and my memory sings and sings…

“oh be careful little eyes what you see.

be careful little eyes what you see…”

…be careful little heart what you want,

for your desire is your worth,

and your Father has paid so much for you,

so much,

because he loves you.

the lines on his hands must be the most beautiful—

the hands that formed the dry clay;

that hold the weary when they walk, for we must walk;

that wrote upon our hearts his presence and his will.

those lines…

what beauty, what mercy, what love.

at these thoughts, the significance of my physical eyes subsides

and that of my soul’s sight rises to the welcome task of recognizing

the Savior’s face, the Father’s hands, the Spirit’s voice,

and then I see

what I must see.

oh be careful…

oh be full of care…

reflections

is it late enough for you to come climbing in

through cracks and quiet hallways?

dark enough, and late?

***

what is the cloth that covers eyes when mem’ry overtakes?

a film, a picture, clear as sight, and yet unseen,

so that the slightest twitch of your finger

means to your mother that you felt the wind,

when really, you felt two years ago when you worked so hard to do so well,

and he put his arms around you to reassure you that it was not in vain;

you felt his heart,

in his words and in his touch,

not the wind.

the veins that show on leaves against the sun

are invisible though vibrant as a backdrop to a tear against skin

made warm and red with sincerity and love.

the stem between your fingers means to your sister and to your brother

that you are savoring life,

you are cherishing light…

in your mind you are,

but you instead hold his face in your hands

and feel his warmth and sweat,

a testament – no need for proof – to the powerful hand of our God.

that warmth rests around your hopes

and cradles them like babes whose eyes are closed in sleep.

***

you are absent here, replaced by a distant cousin,

one less distinctive and distinguishing than you…

where you lay meaning,

she is the meaning you try to encapsulate.

where you evoke sentiment,

she is the sentiment that quivers on their lips,

and where you meet

is where we learn how to hold on

and what to hold,

for a word without meaning still speaks,

and a meaning without a word still breathes.