There's one bloom left
on the front yard rose,
being November that's not bad news.
The foreclosure should settle soon
and another round of birthdays
will end the calendar.
The bluff busy bees
clambor a long lonely lavender,
winter already whispering.
To be useful
I open a book sent in the mail,
something about Jesus in a grocery store
sharing short cake in the storm.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
What I read,
hand shading the gold glint
of the ocean,
is my little pocket book
My wife trusts God
to know me
better than I know myself.
The small cold rock of
a song I sang Sunday
turns in my hand.
If my brother whispered
something similar I'd throw it
a mile deep, past dolphins, dinghies,
and the wrong side of dawn.
The bench I watch the west from
is a pew to the wide sky and white caps.
What I negotiate here, what I navigate,
what I need is a way to walk on land,
as well as He traversed the waves.