church.
I trace their names
in the sand of my palm
and God
washes them
into Himself
Imagine yourself on the seashore, writing a letter to God in the sand.
What do you say?
Summer Morning in the kitchen at Seton House
Sitting at the small square table
facing the window, refugee
from the country of longing
where clouds of grief
obscure the mountains,
country cooled by sorrow, heated by dread,
blasted by gusts of panic,
I finger the coffee cup.
Here, the weather is more benevolent.
Mild winds ruffle the oak tree.
The lavish sun ripens
hydrangeas and raspberries.
The intimate sound
of the hummingbird’s
arrival at the feeder
interrupts my fragile silence.
Sit at your kitchen table at a quiet, solitary time. Pay attention to your surroundings— to what you eat and drink.
Imagine God sitting across the table from you.
What do you say to each other?
In Those Days
In those days,
the tree inhabited the living room,
dressy guest drinking water,
lulling me with balsam voice.
Long pine needles jabbed my lips
as I crouched beneath the spiny arms
basking in the tawdry magic
of twinkle lights.
Golden glass balls mirrored my five year old face.
Needles now pink, now yellow, now green on
my concave cheeks and brow,
brown hair tangled with tinsel.
In those days I would build
a small town under the tree,
cardboard houses with glitter glazed roofs
clutched the cotton snow,
a mirror turned into the frozen lake
the cricket sized skaters skirted,
the faithful ice full of the heaven
of tree branches.
In those days I stretched out
underneath the tree in the dark room,
to watch the lights make ever changing
color , ever changing dark patterns
on the wall above.
Remember a specific image from a Christmas from your childhood.
Talk to God about what that image meant to you.
Wintering on St. Mary’s Mountain
Lawnfrost, glittering sparrows,
lights in the twig taut trees.
In the cold sky,
planes, planets,
space stations.
Grey stone college buildings
on the paws of the mountain,
empty of students
gone for Christmas.
Icy wind shrugs off
mountain’s hump.
Great mother bear of a mountain
emerges from hiding
when the leaves lawn her fur.
Rattlesnakes sleep in the
fat folds of her belly,
in the creases behind her knees.
Owls and woodpeckers
skim the gravestones—
buttons on her broad brown coat.
Recall your school life.
Picture your school buildings and surrounding natural scenery.
Imagine yourself walking those grounds with God.
What do you say to each other?
Nearsighted
Although the eye doctor’s chart
melted sadly into the wall ,
I can see this minute before me,
like a snowbird in the feeder
eighteen inches from my face.
We stare at each other through the window.
His black beady eye is watchful.
I also can see nouns and ruins,
hairs on my arms,
wrinkles on my hands,
pulls in my stockings and pills in my sweaters.
I can see the ocean, near me in my mind.
