I stood in the garden
In the still of the wet morning
And watched the leaves twitch
From the pounding of tiny droplets.
As if some small creature was racing for its life
From me.
The intruder.
A chickadee found its landing pad
Just in front of me
At my feet,
Unaware of my hulk.
A miracle unto its own.
Crows cawed,
And eagles screed,
Not breaking the silence
But contributing to it.
Rhododendrons,
Astilbes,
And wisps of grass
Missed in yesterday’s weeding venture
Waved in response.
And the only thought I could dare
To bring to my mouth,
Lest my puny effort to describe
This cacophony of beauty
Destroy it utterly,
Was “Amazing Grace.”

Oh sweet boy.
Dashed without meaning
Against the rocks of time.
I heard of your struggle
And I wept.
I reached out
But couldn't find how to touch.
I was here but you could not know it.
You were there and in comfort,
Or so I thought.
It was not love you felt,
And it was not the limitless sky that guided you away,
But the wanderings of foolishness
And youth
That singled you out for ill.
And were we able,
We would come to you,
And you would know true love of 3.
You have been strong
In spite of our weakness,
And now I long
To see your sweetness
Once again.
Oh sweet boy.

We pray for baubles
Every day.
The proof is there
we say.
The baubles come.
The baubles go,
God steps in
And out,
And so
the proof is here.
Then gone.

I dreamed of all the baubles.

My Pastor told me "God will help.
You just need faith."
I tried on faith
In many sizes
But they always shrunk in the wash
until, after many heartaches
from
leaning on baubles lusted
and gone,
He spoke.
I died for you!
Is that not enough?

It's been about a year
Of my 63.
Somehow I awoke
To the hell around me.
My naivety dashed
Against the rocks of
Parentless terrorism.
Gazing at the latest tragedy
Or slap against humanity,
I long for beauty past
At 64.
Knowing that it will not come
Except within my own self
Where I have a modicum of control.

I see fields and flowers
And taste the honey
Before waking up.

Such greatness
With such grace
Bestowing
Worthiness on the Unworthy.

Gifting the
Ungifted.

Loving the
Unlovable.

Welcoming the
Unwelcome.

Turning the cheek
I have slapped too many times,
And responding
With a kiss.

I cry.
I wail for His forgiveness
And at the vision of myself
Strutting,
Cocky,
Totally inept
And inconceivably wrong.

And yet,
Grace.

It's not every day I see the wonder.
But from time to time it's impossible to ignore.
Some are wondered by the sun and stars,
While others plumb the great mystery of new birth
Or life continuous.

I look for interference's in life
Both great and small.
For it is at those times that my smallness is unique,
And my largeness is revealed for all of its arrogance.
And as the thunder roars
And the grasses sigh,
I see Him.

The outstretched hand
That simply asks
For pennies thrown its way.
The voice of scorn,
"I've nothing,
I've got none for you today."

The dirt,
The smell,
The shuffling feet,
The lack of freedom
On the street,
Among the silent bustling
Of the office worker beat.

Who are the real beggars here?
We really need to ask!
Are Bay and Wall Street's sources
Spread to face the real task?
To feed the hungry,
Clothe the poor,
To fill the outstretched hand with more
Than just a passing glance?

About 2000 years ago
Christ did much more for me.
His outstretched hands
Were nailed in place
So beggars we would never be.