Grass and Gravel

 

I’m barefoot in an emerald sea

stained with rain. Tiny prisms of water –

holy font – baptize my toes and I

don’t remember anyone telling me

that your soul grows

when your soles soak up grass whispers.

My feet swish soft and it all breathes life,

this nakedness, this intimacy with the impossible

green. It is a marked moment, a heartbeat of time

made holy in the offering of simplicity,

of simply being. But I forget so

soon. Distracted, my soul loses

its footing and I am cringing on gravel, bits sharp

on tender flesh. I long for grass, for softer times,

places where the tread of living is easy, where every step

does not set jaws on edge with discomfort. But who can say

whether the sharp awareness of gravel

is not the truest gift?

Ferocious, this biting – but many steps in gravel

build resilience. And is that not holy, too?

Toughened skin, stepping firm despite pain, may

not this be a place of intimacy, of

connection with a life larger than grass?

And I think,

I don’t remember anyone telling me that

gravel blesses the grass with deep benedictions.

I’m barefoot, and I hesitate, deliberate.

I choose the gravel path.

 

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Surprise

frosty-fence

frost feeds on fear

freezes future fortunes

dishes up death on a silver platter

wouldn’t it be shocked to know

when we are flash-frozen

we grow glorious?

You Are Sky

vortex-sunset

You are sky,

canvas kaleidoscope

mysterious and dangerous.

I stare fascinated,

drawn by your glory,

terrified of your ferocity,

your untamed wild.

You are sunrise and rainbow,

hurricane and eye –

unpredictable and beautiful,

Beauty and Beast.

Your face reflects my own,

scrapes at places long-buried,

calls forth daybreak

from the ashes of darkness.

You smile and I dance.

You groan and I tremble,

labour beneath your tears and sighs.

You are sky,

too grand to be boxed,

too magnificent to be tamed,

and I love you.

 

 

Fanciful Fireworks

tamarack.jpg

Fanciful fireworks

arcing green against

an early summer sun,

exploding with raw energy

.

while dazzling with bursts

of neon independence,

rebellion lit by pyrotechnics

of a slow-burning spring’s

.

impetus. Roman candles

ablaze with purpose and

passion, sparklers declaring

a living soul rising;

.

I ooh and aah at your

display, for I know that

this show of bravado

just might ignite – me.