soft dreams

soft dreams settle on me

through the scent of a warm winter flame,

by its glow, a slow turn of dark to light.

can my whisp’ring imagination fight the cold around?

can past and future find a foothold here unbound?

soft chords arouse a sleeping ghost within me

who once refused to be a shadow

but has now rested far too long.

let her be strong amidst the concrete walls and oily water,

drift above like light’s own daughter,

give a gift to self, to sons of man,

one quiet, fierce, and unafraid.

what we are in our letters

"...what we are in our letters when we are absent, we will be in our actions when we are present."

Paul writing to the Corinthians about their opinion that he is different when he writes to them as opposed to when he is actually there speaking with them, that his letters are strong and "weighty" but his presence "unimpressive." He states that he is the same person, living and preaching the same message of Christ. In writing, his words live; in person, his actions speak.

in a much smaller way (i don't consider my writing nearly as monumental as his), this makes me ponder the difference between my writing and speech. i feel like i stumble over my tongue as my throat dries up and my mind searches for words to make the gears of your mind turn. but in writing, seeing my thoughts unfold letter by letter and word by word, where i can rearrange and sculpt, stretch my thoughts out as dough kneaded then risen, i see myself unveiled. and when i am able to shape the words in such a way, i am content.

here's to writing myself to you more often. here's to quelling the unrest that rages at times or igniting the hopeful sparks of inspiration that smolder without the breath of the hand or pen.

sunflower

along away

through yellow petals traced with the scent

of summer grass,

my face in it

and falling through

to roots of trees and other things…

a small cascade, if there’s such a place,

is my escape

and last autumn's leaves

impress the sun around the water’s face.

Song of Isaiah

This melody has been swimming in my head today, applying to everything, as the Word of God is wont to do... I grew up in an LCMS congregation, singing hymns and psalms and liturgy, and many of them have stuck with me. I thank God. I have fallen in love with the melodies that carry Scripture from the pages of the Bible into the air from the pipes of the organ and the lips of my brothers and sisters in Christ, and every so often they play back, sometimes in my own young voice. Today was one of those times.  

This particular refrain comes from an arrangement of Psalm 31 and a song of Isaiah (12:2-9). The melody that has stuck with me is the one printed in the CW, p. 77...

Surely it is God who saves me;

I will trust in him and not be afraid.

For the Lord is my stronghold and my sure defense,

and he will be my Savior.

overcast

overcast isn’t over anything.

it’s perfect.

a shade of dark that accentuates the green under my boots.

constant conversation in the air entreats my silence.

but there is music and narration in my mind,

atop my footsteps,

in my place,

because i am invisible here...

Psalm 121

I lift up my eyes to the hills—

where does my help come from?

My help comes from the Lord,

the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—

he who watches over you will not slumber;

indeed, he who watches over Israel

will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord watches over you—

the Lord is your shade at your right hand;

the sun will not harm you by day,

nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all harm—

he will watch over your life;

the Lord will watch over your coming and going

both now and forevermore.

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…