Wind stirs in expectation; it
softly strokes my face.
The March sun reassures me,
warms pale flesh
through layers of thick sweater
and winter coat.
Under indigo hills
new grass flows,
yellow and green,
as past distant ranges,
to the sky-bright, rounded sea
he flees and sends us
a gift of clouds,
aflame
in glory.
Peace be with the grass of the fields!
Peace
to dark hills and drifting clouds,
and to the sacrificial sun
peace!
Make me your
hammer.
I’ll pound
the stubborn nails down
til all boards become one.
Let me be a fierce nail,
and I’ll pierce your living flesh,
number all your bones.
My rough hand will smooth
away sin’s sharp edge
and bring low life’s
knot of corruption.
With gleaming blade
will I open a wound
pulsing joyfully in your side
to anoint with living blood
the guilty hands
of soldiers.
So use me, O builder,
and build your house
of many rooms.
(7/12/2012)
from “Canticle of the Sun,” by St. Francis of Assisi: “Be praised, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air, and clouds and storms, and all the weather, through which you give your creatures sustenance.”
Bird-song rises
in clear, liquid waves
as golden leaves arc
twisting
to the ground.
Heavy gold
must fall.
October heat
gives way
to winter rain
yet inevitably life flows
like the breeze
rising from the broad sea
to the high Sierra;
grey clouds rise
and heavy snow falls.
All the living waters
give praise.
(10/4/2013)
“The eyes of the saint make all beauty holy and the hands of the saint consecrate everything they touch.” Thomas Merton
Look at me, O Saint,
sagging skin,
thinning hair, face
lined with roads
too far traveled.
Can you see
in me God’s
beauty?
Then touch me!
O take into
your holy palms
my living heart.
Fill me with desire!
Make of me
a holy psalm,
consecrated host,
eternal fire.
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