In the dark shadows
falling across the land,
we shall stand as small,
subversive enclaves in
the midst of raging chaos,
in the teeth of hatred;
we shall be lights on a hill,
salt to the tasteless,
clothed like the lilies
of the fields, loved
like the sparrow falling.
We are scattered all,
ash to the wind
that blows through time;
we are snared like spirit
in the branches
of eternity.
In pink for the memory
and the sparkle in her eyes
that hides a secret and the
closeness of the time, defies.
That she is loved
there is no doubt,
no whisper here,
the printed shirts
a singular shout,
an affirmation that
love wins out.
We are held, each of us,
in the hearts of those we
have nurtured; for most
of the time, for most
of the road, we are not
alone – except for
just a moment.
From the bed to the chair
and back again, the world
seems to be shrinking; but
perhaps instead it is
preparing horizons, larger
than we ever dreamed.
Within the inclusiveness
of that living word
and in the compassion
of the loving heart,
there is a critical red thread
that holds all things in the
balance of justice and mercy.
The frog is in the pot
and the water is boiling,
someone took the fruit
from the tree but the thief
is not owning up; we woke
to a new enlightenment
yet the dark clouds are
blacker than ever.
The hours parade slowly in the
face of the moving hands, the
dawn cracks the darkness until
the darkness comes once more.
THE FLOWERS GONE
I woke to the darkness,
to the tyranny of pride
that hammered iron spikes
into the hands of love and
marched in jackboots over
the sacred ground where
once the flowers grew.