First Fall

It has been a long while since I've posted... too long. July completely escaped me, and August is about to do the same. I confess I have not kept up on my poetry (on or off this blog) as I would have liked... I give you these words to usher in the Fall and the many changes that come with it...

First Fall

The tree outside my window has begun to change,

its red face turned to the new sun,

the rest looking west

remembering summer.

I knew him when he was small,

and he knew me,

the little one trudging the yard

    in search of Easter eggs or a favorite kitten.

And then I grew up on the other side of the house.

This is our first Fall together,

and I will have to leave him for other trees,

trees that say little to me but "We are here."

I'll return when his branches are bare

    and the shadow he casts has atrophied to a whisper.

He will wake me,

and we will remember.

free

(the portions in quotation marks are taken from a poem by my best friend.)

“barefoot and crazy

but mostly free,”

i discuss with myself

the me that i wish i still knew.

she was contemplative, focused—

i am scatterbrained and distracted.

she was innocent, graceful—

i am worn and bear witness,

self-conscious and uneasy.

a battleground between confidence and self-doubt,

between soaking it all in and articulating the beauty before me,

between knowing what i have learned to know, and learning what i’m told i should.

my mind wanders with my feet to the field,

to distant memories brought close by the familiar sounds

and sights of home.

the sun keeps his promise

to rise and set as he did when we were children,

but now the grass grows shorter

and in different places,

my secret places gone or changed.

i try to fit regardless, and i find only mild satisfaction.

what is this desire?

i scold myself for hiding here,

for waiting as the days pass, as the light drifts

and looks in on me in my quietude.

have i abandoned freedom for fear?

(this question has changed me…)

for fear that i must keep my freedom?

that it is somehow i who must portion off some days to be free

and others to be full, filled by obligations and “the rest”?

we cannot live as we once did,

and yet we must.

we cannot forget the feeling of dirt and sand and grass and stone beneath our feet.

“we are free, to the same extent we are fearless.”

they are bound up in each other,

the freedom to fly and the fear of the fall.

they direct our steps,

sometimes careful, sometimes reckless.

both can result in injury,

one results in joy despite pain.

in my hands, in my feet

i remember beauty the way it should be.

“barefoot, be free.”

Imagine

I believe that a person must always hold on to her imagination. No matter where she goes or when she gets there, she must always see beauty in the things around her and be reminded that her world is, at least in part, what she would make of it. I think one is blessed with a better imagination if she believes that the Creator is the source of all of these beautiful things. And with faith in Him, she may also see and acknowledge that this beauty has been tainted. Imagination encompasses more than beauty. Indeed the fear and pain and sorry of the world contriute to its greatness as well as does the majesty of life. May we ever lok with both eyes open.

be still, my soul

i thought about it as we sang those words...
the thought that it is actually my soul that keeps me still
under the cross of grief or pain,
rather than encouragement from me
that keeps her sane.
and these words came...

a conversation with my soul

she sings out in hymns of praise
and it is the glow of the glory of God
that she brings to my face.
she is mine,
and my salvation is found in the fact that we hold fast
to the love of Christ.
oh faith!
oh soul!
the echoes of the waves upon the walls--
notes struck,
notes bowed,
heads bowed and voices lifted to our God...

internal shouts burst forth,
she cannot be contained;
for love she knows,
by love she's owned,
and here that love is named:

ah dearest Jesus.
Lord, abide with us.
your hands have bled,
your words have fed
our hearts and heav'nly hopes.


she is passionate
and she cries when she sees the Lord behind closed eyes,
imagines his feet coming towards her,
she looks down,
she lies down,
but here she's lifted up.
everything that is gentle and good in the world
is here.

"I am the good shepherd.
the good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep."

though in the dark,
she can't make out his face,
she thinks of white,
of warmth,
of song and light and grace.
and she cries when she sees the Lord behind closed eyes...


open them.
she tells me like it's easy.
open them
and see before you

"... the Sun of life divine
through passing clouds shall but more brightly shine."

"you are too beautiful to be broken," she said to me.

"i break every day...

i am beautiful because 

someone keeps putting me back together."

Job 5:18

picture by lauraisakitten

rain, rain don't go away

i am all kinds of aimless fury inside.

where can it go?

where can i go?

summer

my mother used to put dried flowers in my hair
just like these…

that is summer in my mind sometimes.

photo by Amy Longberry