way out in the distant open,
where stars burn
in their stable courses,
nothing but the hissing of
combusted gases
breaks the silence

so much of the universe
is unlivable
so why is it littered
with detail
so fine that the best
our scientists can do
is guess and run their
calculations once,
and once again?

+

pitiable love consumes it's
daughters,
pining after the last sweet
sigh of summer
as it bathes in winter's pain

hungry for bread
for the flesh of the dead,
and waking to groan in the
thousand-year night

simpering sailor of skies
spread like seas,
docks on the island,
the tomb of his breeze

hallowed howling, a temple's
gloom,
wolf and knife and priest
come soon

discovery comes sooner than the drowning
of day,
details unmask
but you knew where
they lay.

Deaf and mute and eyeless
stranger,
pilgrim from a foreign star
pitch your tent on the liar's island,
fuel your way from shore to shore

half-known visions cloud
the sky above,
stars and charts speak dim
and slow
flinging out solutions to the question never
asked
but always posed

why?

why these mysteries,
while scarlet ribbons flutter to the floor;
why these planet-spinning stars
when there is butter spread on bread;
why this life-defying silence,
when from the cradle of a thousand
infants, a thousand infants roar?

hilarity is not the mother nor the
cousin
to this beauty;
it's an apposite distinction
left out to laugh like
empty hulls hung
in wind.

No face is peering through the shutters
of the world,
no hand is sifting through the sea-shore
grit of galaxies left out
to spin amidst the ever-dancing
light

or so they say;
with odd and accurate
predictions that sustain
nothing                                                                                      
but denial
in the face of a world too vast and untamed to pretend for one moment that we all are not the most infinitely consequential of specks to hurtle through the dark and unforgiving void of space lit up with brilliant blues by a feathered mother sitting close and warm in the hatching heat of a nest that has not yet raised its eggs…

skies break open
far above
thunder dies on the ear
in the unforgiving roar
of the undoing
of this mortal shell.

Rejoice, dirt-dwellers, sun-begotten
creatures of the dust and breath of God;
thus the end shall come.

i like making homes of
places i have never been
before,
and likely never will again

you must sit still, after you've
found your momentary home
and look around as if this is all
you've ever known;
all the reasons you love
other places
now originate with
this one, in the moment
where you are
right now;
at least, that's what you
have to tell yourself
to make it feel like home

i've made homes of fallen logs,
(a new one every time)
and i've made homes of houses
where my friends have called me
theirs,
and i've made homes of tables
that we sat around
all night,
and i've made homes of faces,
kisses, hands that hold mine
tight;
and i've made homes of bedrooms
where i lay alone at night,
and restless roll through
hours of the
day

and i've made homes of feelings
- when God comes close to me -
when all the joys and sorrows of
this world have all bled through,
and i see the other side
of the page,
where the light shines

i've made homes of many things,
i do it easily,
but the one things that i
haven't done,
is make a home of me.

i met God in the forest today,
climbing a tree
(i, not He)
clambering up a fallen trunk,
propped by a young and
supple birch
- it's not the most divine
of sanctuaries
founded and built
up by men;
but it was enough for me

i stood up, balanced
twenty feet over
soggy earth and leaves
and breathed in the fragrance
of divinity

i met God in the forest today,
climbing a tree
(He, with me)

and i'm still happy, for
He has stayed.

where is God when the
cold wind blows,
when the ice and snow have
covered every leaf
and sculpted stone

where is God when the sun
shines bright,
when the balm and glow have
lifted every moment up
by half degrees

where is God when you are
lonely
where is God when you are
glad,
where is God when every moment
of my life flits by?

in the nooks and crannies - for those
who are looking,
in the wide open places, for those
who are seeking,
in the stillest, smallest voice, for those
who have ears,
in the thunder and the flash, for those
who are knocking

where is God in the darkness,
where is God in the night,
where is God when I'm crying,
where is God when I've died

all around me,
up above,
underneath,
in every cell
God is everywhere that you are,
and everywhere that you
are not
God is present at the grave
God is present at the altar,
God is present when you love,
God is present when you falter,
God is in the world around you,
God is in your own heart, too,
don't look up if you don't want to,
but He's still looking down
at you.

I have no doubt
           that I have seen
                                what it means to love.

all my life it has surrounded me,
the aura and the action
             both entwined as one
                             divinely-fueled
                                                         activity -
both the savor and the sacrifice
of love.

Mother, father,                                    
hear a son rejoicing in the magic
                   of your love
for me, for all the children                
(and their offspring, too)
but more - much more than that,
the love you celebrate today
                             as man and wife united
in the pattern of Christ's love.

Today is a day of memories,
memories that only two
can share,
memories that span for longer
than the days I've walked
                  this earth;

memories of love's first gentle stirring,
in the blush of tender youth,
when sweethearts stood with beating
                     hearts, and eyes spoke more than
                       words;

memories of longing to break down the miles
between,
to close the distance, holding close,
                                      let come whatever will...

memories of certainty, of love's sweet, calm assurance
in the moment that you knew
                   without a shadow's doubt
                     that
                                  "I will always love you"

memories of rings and things, of wedding
               preparations,
                      of whirlwind moments bringing every
                               detail into orbit;

memories of love itself, the tender,
                  sweet communion
       blessed by God above and fruitful
         beyond what man can tell;


memories of love maturing, growing
as you grew,
memories of memories, of standing
strong and true...

these memories are yours alone,
             the precious bond you share,
                        the sacrifice of willingness,
                                 to live for more than you.

Mother, father,                                              
hear a son rejoicing in the magic
                       of your love
in the strong and steady sacrifice
you've lived out day by day;
one for the other, the other for the one,
and both in heart united
as you seek and serve
the One.

Mother.                                          
Father.                              
Today you remember the past,
                       rejoice in the present,
                          and hope for the future;

and I, from the outside looking in, on lives
so, so well-lived...                    
                            ...I weep the joyous tears of one who
                                                sees the Savior
                 in your love.

Light ****** the heart
in ways that darkness never can.

Joy speaks more softly than despair.

Love will change what hate
perpetuates.

And mercy gives what justice must withhold.

You set my soul at rest.
Not by relaxing any standard,
leaving any stone unturned that I
should consider.
Just... the way you look at me. With
patience, confidence, and that strangely
tender hint of longing.

How can I hope to give myself to you,
when my daily life is such a
weak and constant trouble?
A constancy, a refuge to relax in
- as you are to me -
that's what I want to be.

But. Storms and God above.
That man isn't me.
Not now.

Sometimes I let myself wonder what you and I
would be today,
if I were a better man yesterday.