pure and wise

Wisdom too often
comes at the
cost of innocence,
but You say both:
doves and serpents,
holy and shrewd,
fly and slither,
strike
the heel,
but bring back
the olive branch.

some women

Some carried dirty water
too far in leaky buckets,
Some bent low to pick
hard crops in the hot sun.
Some kissed fevered foreheads
in ice-cold ICU wards,
Some made their choices
with no choice at all.
And me? I pushed
a stroller, saw a butterfly,
suffered the little children
come to me.
I'll never know why, but
God said it was
enough.

painting grief

They put her ashes
in the ground today,
my grandmother,
and I didn't cry.
The eulogies were stirring
but my eyes dry,
no tremble in my voice
when I stood with
my sister and sang.

Hours later now
I sit by myself
in the art museum
around the corner
from the church.
Where the words and
music of the
morning failed,
the lines and light
of the artist
succeed.

Undone, I cry
grace for the sinner
whose tears are too late.

dusk run

I run tonight
at the rabbit hour
after the rain,
mist rising off the
damp pavement
but it isn't cold
and the moon shines
yellow through
leftover clouds.
A short loop,
then an out-and-back,
my longest run
since the baby and
it feels good
even when it hurts.
The stretch beyond
the turnaround
grades just so,
a faint incline that
feels harder than a hill
because the eye says it flat
but the body disagrees,
and I think that crazy
may be as simple as that:
A fight between
the eyes and limbs
of a man who doesn't
know he's almost home.

I love a baby

I love a baby
for all she doesn't know:
for sweet ignorance,
for the fresh start,
for a thousand mistakes
I haven't made
yet.
I love a baby
for all she doesn't do:
feet that don't run,
arms that don't fold,
lips that don't speak a word
yet.
I love a baby
for all she doesn't need:
no hard decisions
and no discipline,
no tests or therapies,
no parent-teacher conferences
yet.
Oh! how I love a baby.

three sons

Dandelion flower
an hour before dawn,
balled up small,
I wait
for the slow
grow of chill gray
into lighter day,
aching for
sun, son, and Son.

his mother's son

How his eyes crinkle
when he smiles,
the way he gets lost
in a book,
his tender heart,
his hair:
the me in him
I love to see.

If only we gave
only the good.

How the ghosts of
imaginary expectations
haunt him,
the way correction
makes him squirm,
his tender heart,
his fear:
the me in him
I cannot take away.

God help us both.