We Wonder Still

Many years since, 

we wonder still

to a rough barn,

past hills and fields

through city streets

long cold and dark,

to a small child

born for us, for

light and life, that

by this love come

down, dawn will sing!

On Hearing Certain Music

Though eye does not —
at sigh of strings,
their rise and fall
in time and place,
as life, as love —
let weep the heart.

To Leap and to Praise

To leap and to praise

those who are lame and

those who are mute

touched by Life, by Love

broken with them

given for them

those who are lame and

those who are mute

to leap and to praise

glory to God, glory to all

blessing and glory

world without end

Pen and Lens

At the thin verge of meaning,
I wander in fields and woods,
near and far, known and not;
a kind of faith, hope, love
for truth, beauty, goodness.
Though the word escapes me,
and the image, my camera,
I wonder long, pen and lens.

A Child Is Born For Us This Night

All our vulnerability embodied
in so compact a time and space,
a child is born for us this night —
for the twisted tongue and limb,
and the harrowed heart and soul,
for the nameless none have marked,
and the countless come to pass —
born to sinew faith, hope, love
from dark to light, death to life,
this passion laid to earth, for us.

Words That Will Not Sleep

With the wrinkling years
it happens less and less,
words that will not sleep,
that clamor in the head
to be written, to be said,
though the dark is deaf
and morning long to come;
still, the heart does voice.

Hermeneutic Principle

The meaning of this
word modifies that,
whether proximate
or separate, in
time or space or both;
modifies, neither
rules nor replaces.
So hearts as for words.

They Are Gone

They are gone, and
I think of them,
long, as prie-dieu
bent to hard wood.

The Winter Garden

The winter garden,
pared and cleared,
bides in time,
no mind or heart
for hour or day,
nor length of night,
just life in still,
bare-limbed,
cold-clod,
plant and soil;
when of a sudden
air to earth
wings a cardinal,
as if a hinge
of time, of summer,
memory and hope,
seeded in us,
sursum corda,
while we face
the coming snow.

A Psalm in Two Questions

Has God in mercy
spared my life
these many years?
Or, just to censure,
mercy spared,
many these years?

Improvisation

A gray catbird flutes over and under, in
and out, the green ensemble of May
in leaf, improvisation of sound and color,
such jazzy measure, as twilight rains.

Third Sunday after Pentecost

Rain over night, overcast at dawn
This morning in early June
Third Sunday after Pentecost
Laden with warm, humid air

Struggle from night's sheets
I try to wake, try to pray

Just beyond the window, a
Carolina wren descants life
Lifts notes full and strong
As if in natural psalm

The Fire-Winged Dove

     Near at hand --
just across the autumn-flecked ravine
in yards of well-clipped brick homes --
in all-consuming strength of play
little voices rise in ignorance
of hushed diminishings of evening.

     A dove breaks cover
pierces through the leafy veil
ascends the sky as one belonging so
as drawing all things up with it
in rushing strength of will
against the drag of aged woods' debris.

     The children clap and laugh
beholding such a wondrous rising.
Upturned faces eagerly shine
as ruddy little suns flamed
by wings glinting of light in the west.
They would happily plume the air as well
in imitation of the fire-winged dove --
so taken are they by leaping delight --
but parents call them in with clipped cries
to darkened rooms and sleep
(and restless burning dreams).

I Scatter Words

I scatter words of prayer,
a little here, a little there,
from day to day, now years,
and wonder still what ears.

Stained Concrete

Here where I pass
late in the day, late in the year,
trees overhang the walk
with branches all but bare,
the concrete stained
from wet-fall of leaves,
crumpled remainders
of the protean hour
when photosynthesis
surged in cell and vein,
as if things in motion
could counter gravity
then, and even now,
here where I pass.

Kwanzan Cherry Trees Past Peak of Blooms

Such a lovely litter
do wind and trees make
as petals loose from leaves
then swirl and sweep through air
always toward earth
there to cluster and clutter
still allusive of beauty
as what is felt but unseen
lifts and scatters them
across lawn and street
where one spring morning
our feet once lightly went

Marvel at the Elegant Ungainliness

Marvel at the elegant ungainliness
with which the lone great blue heron
slowly strides down the water's edge --
spindle legs lifting, crooking, reaching,
somehow balancing that feathered mass --
all the while itself, fishing and being,
as if unburdened by a clumsy gravity
from some self-tripping consciousness.

The Kwanzan Cherry Tree

Exquisitely soft falls the chill April rain
that separates blossom from leaf
and petals the pavement with color,
as if in lamentation for splendor passing.

Beside the Ephemeral Pond

Beside the ephemeral pond,

among the low wild grasses

bent-brown and green,

winter-summer tangled

the earth-scurrying killdeer

nested four mottled eggs,

then brooded, vigilant

in April's lilting uncertainty

which is when we came along

and heard the anxious cry,

then observed, so keenly

the fierce urge toward life

Sunday's End, with Carolina Wren

Toward the last of this plein air Sunday in late September,
twilight washes sky, clouds, trees, and earth nearer night;
thus end of day, said to be good, very good, dawn to dusk.
Close to the darkening house, just beyond a still-open door,
a Carolina wren flutters the hydrangea, watercolors the air
with brief song, with after-tones of first palette and wet paper.