The Glow of Morning

She chooses to live
in the dark,
afraid of what light
may reveal.

There are mornings, though,
when sleep evades her,
and the sun invades
the room before she
can hide.

She will watch the dust
dance in the streams of light
filtering through the shutters,
and, occasionally, even lift
a hand to feel the warmth,

and marvel at the glow.

 

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Gone

no lipstick message
on the mirror
no scribbled note
on the counter
no tearful sentiment
on a voice mail

she’s gone,
no need to waste words

Home

He
was home,
almost more
a hope than place,
a destination
dreamed of and often feared.
There were battles still to fight,
hidden scars to reveal and heal;
he was home…the journey just begun.

Wounds

We have had a wet winter,
rain — more often than usual —
and snow, a rare occurrence.
We attacked minor chores with
the first semi-warm day, as much
for the sake of escaping the confines
of the house as any real needs
of the yard.

Several low hanging limbs
of the river birch — having become
a hazard to walk under — were trimmed
close to the tree. But the tree, also
aware of the new warmth, had begun
to feed her extremities. Water ran
from each cut, falling back to feed
the earth once more,

falling like the blood
of Christ from the cross,
falling like the tears
of Mary mourning her Son.

Rain and cold returned with the new week,
forming ice cycles where
the tree’s wounds
continued to seep.
The next ten days brought two processions,
two versions of Amazing Grace,
and little peace. I paused by the birch
during the course of a restless night,
cupping my hands to catch the water still

falling like the blood
of Christ from the cross,
falling like the tears
of Mary mourning her Son.