the morning dove cries ~ children sort through parent’s things ~ song for life’s season
I am the walking shadow. I am the flickering light. I am the singing dawn. I am the end of night.
For Pastor Bob A Eulogy on the anniversary of his dying The first thing you notice are his hands; mottled like the trunk of a sycamore tree, tanned brown by the southern sun with patches of cottonmouth white around the knuckles and the palms. They wave in the moist and pregnant air like leaves before…
the act of presence ~ first begins with letting go ~ openness remains
Hey You! Look at me ~ Hey! Over here! Look at me! ~ Hey You. Look at He.
heart filled with lament ~ wish for love to make a dent ~ where hate must relent
Sundays are for rest. I wish neighbors would not mow. Who am I to judge?
prohibitorum ~ hoc prius probatum est ~ imprimi potest