Reflections -
from Volume 100 No 2
Let the wounds bleed
their salt and sadness
till there is nothing left
of grief or hidden hurt
not one failure
cast outside the circle
of forgiveness. Sun
pours over the dry weeds
the thistle
the rusty twisted barbed wire
and the chassis
of the abandoned pick-up
and the wild rose
growing through the broken
windshield. Warm
and without judgment
light falls
into my cupped hands.
________________________________
from Volume 102 No 1
TO BE CALLED
In fall foliage
the spangled lantern
of Japanese maple
lights the morning garden.
The hawthorn's red berries,
sun-struck, glisten.
Last night the gibbous moon
ignited frost on the trash can lids.
Day or night
reverence rises from the ordinary.
To hold the moment, desiring nothing,
is to behold eternal presence simply
waiting recognition. The quiet heart
receives. The ungrasping eye sees
how the world longs to give itself,
how underneath all longing
we long to be called
to praise.