Jigsaw

I.

I open the lid

and my breath speeds ragged,

seas stormed by discontent. So many

pieces – why so many pieces? – and

why so many shades of blue? No one needs

that much sky, I think as I start to sort.

 

Everyone knows you find the edge pieces first

and build in, first the skin and then the heart,

but I can’t find them all in the tangle

of chaos heaped discordant, their absence loud

in the landscape.

 

II.

The box boasts Italian villas, a Mediterranean

masterpiece of  idyllic days. It hurts, this beauty.  It

scorns the doctors, scorns those tired

eyes which peer over masks to discern who

of the twenty will benefit

most from the single ventilator that can be

spared tonight.

 

The bits of colour on my table

are lost in that steady rush of feet and again I wonder,

why so much sky? My hands tremble

and I lose hope – I cannot make this

make sense.

 

III.

Tears brim and wash images clean.

I blink. Is that

a pattern in the stones, a barely perceptible

shift from dark to light just there, in

the bottom left corner? Pieces find shelter in

limestone.  A new thought forms in

the shadows  –

perhaps this much sky is necessary to breathe

in a world full of rocks.

 

Perhaps my eyes are too small,

too human to see the bigger picture;

I step back and

close them in prayer

and my lungs are filled with blue. I breathe,

in and out, slow and big;  I hear

what the jigsaw has to say in the silence.

 

IV.

The construction of a life

is always messy; a chaos of constant

attention to details that

puzzle and elude. There will always be too many

pieces, and so much awful sky – but the blue

is meant to be inhaled deep in faith,

exhaled in mystical prayer over Italian villas

while eyes remain fixed on the box lid. I need to memorize

the villas in all their glory: they will be beautiful

again after the ventilators forget how to

hum.

 

V.

I am alone in the quiet. I search;

there, a smudge of the right kind of blue – bright,

not muted or mixed with gray or green. I smile

and set the piece into place,

a prayer in itself.  Now I can breathe;

I work steadily from the edge in,

first the skin and then the heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Transformation

frosty spruce

Just as frost makes pearls from pain and covers plain with glory,

So your faith can glean the grain within your painful story;

When you feel the pinch of frost, the sting of cold rejection,

Know one day when it has lost, you’ll be a grace confection.

The Covering

frost crystals

She wrapped her naked soul in frost,

Afraid of being known;

But hiding came at bitter cost –

This skin was not her own.

She lost connection to her core

As frozen walls were raised;

The warmth of Love could melt, restore,

So she could live unglazed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fear Falls Fast and Thick

march snowflakes

Fear falls fast and thick.

Icy terrors cover logic in a blanket that mocks security,

Smothers a summer’s-worth of growth

in cold-calculated seconds.

But faith is a hot summer day,

A mind disciplined to thaw frozen lies

And dispel anxious snowstorms;

Melted, watery thoughts drip

Drip

Drip

Onto softened soil.

 

 

 

 

 

a lesson in growing dendrites

frosted delphiniums

and the frost

inanimate and stupid

not content with isolation

reaches with deliberate fingers,

compassion growing great dendrites

fusing cold compatriots into masses of grey matter.

*

and humans

gifted with intellect

build towers without windows

slap the unpalatable needy palms,

disdain growing unquenchable cancers

which gorge themselves on intellectual arguments.

Transfusion

frozenpuddle.jpg

 

He invades her thoughts

Like formaldehyde,

Preserving pain

(Locking it in amber),

The proverbial fly.

He swirls through her veins,

Throbs at her temples

Thick like curdled milk.

Only the Surgeon

Can cut deep enough

To bleed out this cancer,

Transfuse Life

from heaven’s veins

to her impoverished frame.

Blades flash.

Blood flows,

Staining wood and stone.

Every drop

Finds its way

Intravenously

To her heart.