Balancing




Left: Photograph by Maisie Broadhead; Right: Woman Holding a Balance by Vermeer

 

Whew! A day of running a low-grade fever knocked me down pretty hard. Thankfully, it seemed to only be a  one-day virus with no sore throat or congestion following..... just fever and a bit of nausea. An interesting way to start Lent.

And speaking of Lent, I wanted to meditate my way through Psalm 51 this season. I'm only on the first part of the first verse:

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love.... (NIV)

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love.... (ESV)

Be gracious to me, O God, according to Your lovingkindness.... (NASB)

The Hebrew word for mercy is chanan and means "to be favorably inclined, to favor someone, to be gracious to, to pity."

The word translated as "unfailing love", "steadfast love", and "lovingkindness" is the Hebrew word checed. Baker's Evangelical Dictionary tells us this word speaks of God's coventant love....

"....the quality in God that directs him to forge a relationship with people who absolutely do not deserve to be in relationship with him."

I'm listening to a 1993 sermon series by Tim Keller. One sermon I've listened to was titled "People of the Lie." The Scripture reference is Genesis 3:1-9 and the sermon focuses in on vs 5:

“For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”  (NIV)

This is the serpent talking to Eve telling her the "real" reason God doesn't want her and Adam to eat from tree in the middle of the garden. Simply, it's because God is not good and He is withholding something that would be good for them, so she just needs to take it for herself anyway. Bottom line - God is not good, He is not for our good, and therefore, He doesn't love us.

The lie, then, that has been etched into our very DNA is that God does not love us.

And in thinking on all this, I'm beginning to pray this verse from Psalm 51 like so:

O Lord my God,
have pity on this sinner


who so often believes
the serpent's great lie,


who doubts Your goodness
and Your neverending love.


Incline Your merciful heart toward me,
though I deserve it not one whit.


Teach me to live only beneath the shadow

of Your steadfast and unfailing love.

Now, for the artwork above.... I came across photographer Maisie Maud Broadhead's work and fell in love. Especially with her modern day representations of historical paintings. Vermeer's Woman Holding a Balance is one of my favorite paintings. I saw it in person a few years ago in DC at the Nattional Gallery of Art. I love Broadmead's interpretation. Here's a short video explaining a little of her creative process:

Vermeer's painting makes me think of how I need to place God's truth and Satan's lies against each other in the scales of my heart. If I would but look closely, I will see God's truth is always the weightier, the more solid, the one with real substance.

CONTINUE READING...

Wordbreak Wednesday

Wordbreak: point of division in a word that runs onto the next line pausing

Monday night I managed some "art” time and worked on the found poetry assignment from Raw Art Journaling with Artists of the Roundtable. I used an old Discipleship Journal magazine and had a wonderful time cutting out words and arranging them into a poem. I’m so glad I took this photo because I’ve yet to get around to pasting the words on paper and they accidentally got moved around today! I think I can recreate it…

CONTINUE READING...

Good Questions

I'm behind on April's PAD over at Poetic Asides, but I wrote these lines down from April 3rd's prompt:

"Imagine the world without you"

This is what plopped out of my harried little mind:

Good Questions
 

What if you had never been here?
Had never been born?

What if your particular blueprint
with all your dimensions and specifications,
with all your quirks and peculiarities,
had been tossed in the recycle bin
before production ever started?

Whose day would be darker without your smile?
Whose heart would be colder without your love?

What would the world be missing that you have made?
A child, perhaps?
Maybe a work of art – a painting, a poem, a story?
Or is it a warm hearth and humble home?

These are good things to ask before you start your day.

Because there is someone who needs your smile today.

There is someone who craves your love.

And there is something only you-
with your hands and mind and body -
can give to the world.

So, rise and shine, my lovely!

Smile.

Love.

Create.

You are here.

CONTINUE READING...

Lenten Prayer

Lenten Prayer

These sins, Lord, they seep out of every inch of me -

great pride and small faith,

ignorance and blasphemy-

Living mostly as if

You don’t exist,

I seek other

gods.

My sins mound together, impossibly large.

I fear there is nothing to be done.

The devil is here, too.

He squats and sneers,

points a crooked

finger and

laughs.

But Your Light of Truth cracks the darkness,

shining higher than my mountain of sin.

And I remember there is hope –

You have not left me

nor forsaken me

as I have You.

There is a Savior –

Hallelujah! 

CONTINUE READING...

weekWORD: Cynosure

Cynosure: 

something that provides guidance (as Polaris guides mariners); 
"let faith be your cynosure to walk by"

This is a great word chosen by Junebug this week! Lots of food for thought. Click over to her place to find more interpretations.

It was pretty easy to decide what direction this word would take me this week - my faith in God and Jesus Christ is my cynosure. But I didn't know what exactly to write or draw, but today I decided on this girl. She looks rather pensive, don't you think? And cynosure is a very "pensive" word.

Then I thought I'd also include this prose-poem that reflects a bit of my faith. It's a poem I started a year ago and came across again just a few days ago. I finished it today. The poem is about a specific day - a day when I was beginning to come to terms with the fact that one of my closest friends, a woman who had been a mother to me, was going to die soon. I didn't talk a lot about her or her illness on this blog. It was a hard yet beautiful thing to walk with her while she was dying. I'm grateful to her for letting me share it - and for allowing me to learn from her and to see just a bit more of God. And grateful to God for giving the grace to get through it. She's been gone almost 8 months now and I miss her.

The story referred to in the poem is from Mark 5:35-43.  Jesus takes the dead little girl by the hand and says, “Talitha cumi,” which means, “Little girl, I say to you, arise.” I remember reading those words and them hitting me hard. I thought about how I needed the strength to "arise" for the day.

A Day

I. 6 am
Coffee brewed dark like the sky outside, a soft chair to sink into and a thick Bible on my lap. First Psalm 148 and 149, then to Mark’s story.“Talitha cumi,” Jesus said to Jairus’ daughter. Yes - Rise, little girl. Time to wake the house.

II. 11:30 am
A friend prays for me at lunch – a soft rumbly voice and strong hands that reach for mine pinning me down – fixing me to time and place. She knows I’d like to run, to skip ahead, to be done. I don’t want to walk this road, this valley full of shadows. Her freckled hands pass courage to mine like a runner’s baton. “Talitha cumi,” I hear Jesus say.

III.  2 pm

Then to another’s house, too tired to join us, exhausted from battles playing out inside her. I heat up lunch, and watch her eat. “Just heal her, Lord,” I pray between each bite. 

Just. 

“Will I be able to see what’s happening here from Heaven?” she wonders.

"I hope so," I say. Talitha cumi, my friend.

IV.  4 pm
A birthday party tomorrow, twelve little girls to sleep over. Did I agree to this? Cake, party favors, chocolate,coke and chips, gifts. I am tired. Overwhelmed.  Talitha cumi, I tell myself, this day has hours left.

V. 11 pm

Dinner cooked and dishes cleaned, homework finished, lights out. Flat on my back I close my eyes and pray one last time for the day –

“Forgive me, Lord, where I have not risen today, where talitha cumi has seemed too much for me.  In the morning help me to make my first thought climb to You, to pull Your Spirit into my lungs and mix with my blood. Fill my soul that I might truly rise, that I might be a little girl filled with Your new life.”



Sorry for the long post. Blessings ~

CONTINUE READING...

novpad: day 3

Ah - better late than never! Actually, I started writing this last night in my head as I was going to sleep, so I suppose that counts.

So, day 3's prompt at Poetic Asides was to write a "location" poem. Here's mine:

Bed

You are asleep when I get home –
exhausted from a three-day trip.

Turning off the lamp I nudge
you gently to get under the covers

then slip in and fit my head to your shoulder,
knees to knees, breast to back.

I tuck my arm around your chest and
even in sleep you open your hand

to receive mine. We both sigh –
here is a deep gulp of cool water

after a day’s long, hot walk. Your
presence quenches my soul’s thirst.

I pray my girls one day find this too –
a place of wordless rest and safety.

And peace – breaths to match and
hands to hold as they slowly drift to sleep.

CONTINUE READING...

novpad: day 2

...and for day 2: "a ready to start" poem.

This is true. The first piece was good. The second even better! :-)

"Today I Will Start"

Today I will start.
Today I will diet.
Calories to chart!

Banana for ten.
Hot black coffee for naught.
But, oh goodness, then -

Arriving at work
some thin comedienne
(with her skinny smirk)

left in the break room
all good plans to avert,
my darkest black doom -

a CHOCOLATE CAKE
for us all to consume
at our morning break!

CONTINUE READING...

novpad: day 1

I did the April 2009 PAD Challenge.

Every day. I swear.

It was good.

I'd like to say I'll do this one, too. But I'm not so sure of myself right now.

I know it would be good for me to dribble out all these emotions and thoughts, to get them down on page or screen.

Today's challenge was to write a "closing the door" or "turning the page" poem. Wow. How appropriate as we're FIVE DAYS from The Boy's wedding! Definitely turning a page. No one prepared me for the roller coaster emotions.

So...

Asunder

Watching from across the room
I was sure you weren’t feeling well.
It’s those crinkles by your eyes and
the way you lean a little to the left
sitting there on the couch.

Of course if I asked
you would just say,
“No, I’m fine.”

You always do.
You have to be at
Death’s door to admit
sickness.

I know this about you
like I know so many
other things that go
unspoken between us.

Then knowledge hit me with
such strength I took a step back
and leaned against the wall.

A week from now you will be
a married man and another woman
will begin to know all your little signs
of illness. She will see the eyes

and the slouch

and probably notice much more
than I ever have.

“And the two shall become one flesh.”

Yes, that is right.
The right way of the world.

And she is perfect for you -
made to complete you,
to be your helper,
your "ezer", a warrior
fighting by your side
through this wild place
we call Life.

But where does the Bible
talk about the two
who once were one flesh,
mother and son,
but now are
not?

Who for nine months shared
blood and body and breath?

These two that have been slowly-
through the years-
torn asunder?

It is right.
And I am happy.
Yes, grateful.
I am.

CONTINUE READING...

Joyful Regret

A friend and I are reading John Piper's Life as a Vapor together. Last week we talked about the first three chapters and we were both most impacted by the meditation on what Piper calls "joyful regret." His question is this - "Will there be regret in Heaven?" Piper's answer is yes, we will remember, but only that our joy may be truly full. He says:

It is inconceivable to me that we will remember our sin or what it really was, and the suffering of Christ for what it really was, and not feel regretful joy. The intensity of our joy in grace will be fed by the remembrance of our unworthiness. "He who is forgiven little, loves little." (Luke 7:47). (page 20)

In pondering that idea, I wrote this:

Joyful Regret

What will I know in Heaven? The beautiful, glorified faces of those I love, I’m sure.

But what else? What will I remember? Only the good things of this earthly life I’ve lived? Spring strolls and good deeds, morning moons and uproarious laughter?

Or will I remember the bad… the ugly… the shameful?

I’m told there are no tears in Heaven. But no, wait. Isn’t it really that they – the tears, I mean – will all be wiped away? So –

it seems to me – that tears will fall, but comfort will come.

He will stop as we are walking and talking, gently turning me to look into His beautiful face. With a kind hand He will touch my wet cheek and wick away my tears falling from whichever regret we are speaking of and say to me,

“That’s why I came down there, love. Don’t you see? So now have joy that I loved you this much.”

Then He’ll stretch out His arms so wide that inside I’ll see the Universe – millions upon millions of planets and stars and galaxies. And I will understand grace...

and mercy...

and love...

as I have never understood them before.

CONTINUE READING...

Jacks and Lunes

I haven't written much poetry lately, but I'm feeling that draw to play with words like I used to play with jacks when I was a little girl. Do you remember that game? Throwing those silver spikes down and looking for patterns to emerge so you could ever-so-carefully pick them up by ones and twos and threes until they were all safe in your small, tight fist? There was no better feeling of triumph than to make it all the way through to the end without dropping a single jack!

Anyway, that's how I'm feeling about writing... slinging down words and hoping some cool patterns will emerge that will help me put it all together.

Yesterday at Poetic Asides Robert Lee Brewer posted his third poetic form challenge: the lune. (I went with the Collom lune version.) The phrase it will grow on you got stuck in my head while listening to an audio book and has come out in this poem about Adam and Eve and Sin. I cannot imagine how horrified Adam and Eve were once they realized what they had done... what having the knowledge of good and evil really meant.... to know evil is a terrible, terrible thing.

After the Fall

He told us:
It will grow on you
like baby soft

skin over a
skinned knee or beautiful moss
swaying in trees.

We were so
newly fallen and lost that
we didn’t understand

about pain or
parasites or anything else from
the Deep Evil.

It didn’t take
very long for us to
see that the

old Serpent was
nearly right in his words.
Sin became an

easy mantle to
wear, a comfortable bed on
which to sleep.

But he was
wrong, too – it not only
grew on us,

Sin consumed us,
body and soul, until we
did, indeed, die.

It seeped into
our bowels, our marrow, our
cells – permeating, absorbing –

until there was
not one thing left without
blemish, nothing pure.

We were steeped
in the Great Dark Knowing
and fed it

forward to our
babies and their babies and
all the rest.

Lies and murder,
hatred, jealousy, spite and anger –
Adam and I

birthed these into
the world the same as
Cain and Abel.

Now we watch
and wait for the One
promised, the One

Who will split
the Snake’s head open and
take off our

animal skins, then
place upon us the holy
robes of Righteousness.

I think I'll go buy some jacks and play with Mary today! Have a bloggy good day, friends! And I pray that you (and I!) lean today on the Woman's Seed who struck that old Serpent a death blow square on the head.

CONTINUE READING...

Sabbath Morning

Time changed last night – springing forward,
morphing into something
brighter and warmer.

Coffee and Book and morning prayer- a type of trinity.
I flip through onion-skin pages, gold-edged,
the color of spilt milk. They whisper, soft
under my fingers, soothing to my soul.
Moses preaches to the Israelites –
parsing curses and blessings,
then Paul to the Galatians –
harvesting fruits of the Spirit.

I breathe in steam from my cup,
and breathe out supplications from my heart –

and try very hard to listen.

Coffee cold, I start the slow slide into the day. Chicken
soup put on to simmer in a favorite pot.
Sweet cornbread mixed, ready to bake.
A load of laundry folded, towels and
wash clothes sandwich-stacked,
socks reunited.

I feel like a swimmer poised on the block,
tensed, waiting for the horn signaling
permission to dive into a new week.
Breakfast, then church and lunch,
flip turn and a long afternoon nap,
dinner and coffee with friends.

Yesterday was 24 years. I do the math in my
head as I fold his t-shirt – one thousand two
hundred and forty eight weeks. I smile and
pray for the grace of more.

This Sabbath morning is a pause, a great comma in the
run-on sentence that is my life. Grandma said idle
hands are the Devil’s workshop. I think busy
hands are his anesthesia, keeping us from
feeling the warm breath of the
Spirit on our necks, noticing
His hand slipping into ours.

The ceiling creaks, someone else is awake.
I hear water running in an upstairs
bathroom. Time is a changeling
I have almost
caught.

CONTINUE READING...

Making Sweetness

Where did this come from? A dream last night about a cat... my friend sending a poem to me last week...the word "parsing" catching my attention in a book I'm listening to...and of course the whole "B" thing I've got going on...dunno. But, anyway, the images wanted to be on paper. :-)

He comes-
a dog with a bone,
an old Tom cat with
a mangled bird to lay
at her feet and
she is horrified.

He comes-
slicing open her chest
and scooping out her heart,
a bear stealing secret honey,
waking the sleeping
hive.

So now she,
the lone queen
of swarming thoughts and emotions,
of memories and desires,
is left to call
them home,

left to parse
through what remains,
and then begin the slow process
of making sweetness
from her sins
again.

CONTINUE READING...

Sleep

Yesterday's prompt from Poetic Asides November PAD Chapbook Challenge was to write about something slippery. Sleep seems like a slippery thing to me, so as I was falling alseep last night out on the porch (my favorite place to sleep) snuggled up with Mary (my second-favorite person to snuggle with), these lines came to mind.

Sleep

I move in
and out of sleep

my book sliding
to the floor,

stolen slumber
on the porch –

dreams come knocking
at my door.

A small breeze blows,
leaves rustle,

the moon shines and
night birds sing.

In my mind I
slip away

on silvered waves
and feathered wing.

CONTINUE READING...

Fall

Here's my Day 3 poem for the PAD Chapbook Challenge. The prompt was to write a positive or a negative poem. I went for positive - about Fall, my most favorite season!

Trees undress
slowly
one leaf
at a time,
baring limbs
that point to
Heaven,
revealing
a secret
posture
of praise.

CONTINUE READING...

Two Moons

Alrighty! It's Day 4 of the November PAD Chapbook Challenge and I've only written two poems. Here's number 2. I'll spare you number 1. :-)

The prompt was: Write a poem in which you look at something from a different angle.

What came to mind to me was the evening moon that has been following me home from my class I've been attending in Raleigh this week and the one that's been greeting me on the morning commute. Same moon, two very different views.

Two Moons

A golden plate
set low on night’s table
inviting me to feast
on the beauty of its face,
to lie wrapped in moonbeams
and watch as the sky is
salted with stars.

A pale circle
like a drop of bleach
accidentally spilled
on light blue linen cloth,
slipping slowly out of sight while staring
sullenly across the sky at the
rightful owner of the day.

CONTINUE READING...

5th Grade Five Word Monologue

Here's my Five for the week:

Evidence
(Tangible, Mysterious, Bodily, Atmosphere, Apologies)

Lord,

Often have I asked
for tangible evidence
of Your existence -
a mysterious figure,
some bodily form
surrounded by a
great light filling
the whole atmosphere.

I believe, I have said.
But help my unbelief.

You never showed.

Or so I thought.

But now I see
You everywhere:
A marriage preserved.
A little girl saved.
My soul redeemed.
My life changed.

That is all the
evidence I need.
Everything is
holy.

My apologies.

CONTINUE READING...

5th Grade Five Word Monologue

Here's the poem that originally came to mind for me with this week's five. My favorite poem is The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson. These words just seemed to bring me there. (The words in italics are directly taken from the original poem.)

The Hound
Shun, Sacred, Affection, Electric, Breath

How many years did I
shun the Sacred?
How many years spent
wasting my affections
on the shifting,
meaningless
trappings of this world?

How many years passed
until –
(At last!)
that fearsome Hound began
His unrelenting chase?

He chased me down the wicked
winding ways of my mind, His
warm breath on my neck,
His teeth nipping at my heels.

Ah,
but now I see
He was always there –
just behind –
nudging me onward,
upward.

No great blinding Damascus Road
electric cloud –
No scales dropping magically
from my sin-filled eyes –

Just the unhurrying chase,
the unperturbed pace,
the patient plodding pads,
of the Great Hound of Heaven.

Now I realize

it was He
beside me at night,
his shaggy mane
giving warmth
and comfort.

It was He
Who went before me,
teeth bared,
awesome in battle,
scattering my enemies.

It was He
nosing me ever forward,
sometimes gently,
sometimes fiercely,
down this path I was to trod.

And in the end
He will say to me –
“Fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom
thou seekest.
Rise and clasp my hand,
and come!”

And I will come.
I will come.


Blessings, bloggy friends. May you feel the breath of the great Hound of Heaven and know His "unhurrying chase and unperturbed pace" today.

CONTINUE READING...

Five Word Monologue

Here's my five words for the week. Inspired by Ginger and her epistle poem, I've tried it myself. In eighth grade, the public schools in my parish were in disarray, so my parents sent me to the only private school option in our town for a year until things weren't so volatile: Tioga Baptist Acadamy. I learned about the history of the Reformation and how to diagram sentences. I went to chapel every morning, played on the basketball team, and was introduced to algebra under the best math teacher I've ever had: Mrs. Lonez.

To Mrs. Lonez:
(Pulverize, Shoals, Cauldron, Sovereign, Forfeit)

I.
Dear Linda,
Do you mind if I call you ‘Linda’?
I would like to think you wouldn’t.
I imagine us sitting down for tea
and laughing about old times.
You – an elderly woman now.
And me – older than you that year.
Maybe you wouldn’t find it so funny,
though. We were brutal little beasts and
you were just trying to do your job. I may
have forfeited the privilege to use your
first name.
So be it. I’m sorry.
Mrs. Lonez, then.

II.
You struck fear in our eighth-grade hearts,
pulverizing us with sharp words and a
sarcastic manner. Now I know it was
just a way of protecting yourself from
our mean ways. We told each other you
looked like a witch and drew pictures at
break on the blackboard of you stirring a
cauldron, a black cat perched your shoulder,
a hairy wart on your chin. You would come
in, short and dumpy, disheveled in a
polyester flower print dress and bark
out a sharp laugh, wipe off the board,
and send me – closest to the door –
to beat out the erasers. I watched the
chalk dust fly into the wind, imagining
it was smoke rising from your evil brew.

III.
But of all my teachers
through all the years,
I remember you most.
You introduced me to the wonderful
constancy of numbers,
taught me how to manipulate them,
bring them into submission.
You taught me control.
You were the first to speak of the
mysterious and unknown x, how
numbers and letters could happily
coexist. You showed me how to take
equations and batter them against the
rocky shores of mathematical rules,
then how to dig among the shoals
for the one and only
true answer.

IV.
I remember the day you took the
number eight and said, “Watch this.”
You laid it on its side and introduced
me to God’s time, to infinity.
“No beginning and no end,” you said.
“Just like God.”
At that moment I started a journey
I’m still traveling today, of trying
to understand the vocabulary
I was hearing in chapel every morning:
Ominous and Omnipotent,
Sovereignty and Justice,
All-Powerful
and Loving.
And here I am,
still shifting pebbles on the shore,
blessedly finding pieces
of the One and Only
True Answer.

V.
So, thank you, Mrs. Lonez.
Thank you for the firm foundation
in math you gave me –
solid enough to later support
differential equations and
three dimensional calculus,
vectors and matrices,
integrals and numerical analysis.
But thank you, too, for being the
first person to stand beside me at
time's window and pull back
the curtains so I could
peer into
eternity.

CONTINUE READING...

Give Us This Day

While praying the Our Father this morning my
mind snagged on the phrase “Give
us this day our daily bread.”

I prayed: “It’s not just the physical food
Lord, that I need, but spiritual food,
too. Manna to give me a

thick and hearty soul, not thin and
transparent, easily blown about
by the winds of this world.”

But in praying this, I paused, realizing
just what I was asking, for I know
true soul-fattening food

is seldom a plate of sweet meats
set before us with silver forks
and spoons and lace

tablecloths. More often it’s a crude
bowl of bitter broth seasoned
with salt from our tears.

Both nourish – the first building
stores of fat to feast upon
during days of famine.

The second has hidden within holy
tonic needed to heal the
deep wound made

by Pride’s wicked sword, whether
wielded by another or held
by our own hand.

“So, yes Lord, give me this day my daily
bread, the sustenance that You
alone know that I need.

And help me to dine upon it in faith,
fully knowing it has all been
prepared under Your care.”



May you feast in faith at His table today, bloggy friends, whether sweet meats or bitter broth.
Blessings -

CONTINUE READING...

Book Review: What the Living Do

What the Living Do by Marie Howe, Publisher: W.W. Norton & Co. (April 1, 1999), ISBN-10: 0393318869

Rating: 4 of 5 STARS
Source: Random pick at a local used book store

There's a large bin of poetry volumes at our local used book store. I love to browse through them and sometimes I pick up one or two. They're only a dollar... not a big risk. A couple of weeks ago, I picked this one because the person who had it before me had underlined lots of verses and written copious notes throughout the book. To me, that's the best part about buying used books.
From Library Journal: "This compassionate memorial to illness and the loss of Howe's brother, John, and other friends ably depicts the growth and development of personal bonds against which "post-modern brokenness" is measured. This thoughtful analysis of elements of grief ("a living remedy") will perhaps help to ease trauma of death, as does Robert Frost's "Home Burial," but full comprehension of "cherishing" and pain after "the wake and the funeral" seems impossible. The best of these empathetic poems demonstrate a longing for wholeness and appreciation of the "terrified and radiant" mysteries of silence."

Most of these poems were about the death of the author's brother, or rather the dying of her brother. There were others about her childhood (which were pretty disturbing to me) and some just about life. Overall, the poems were beautiful and thoughtful and inspired me to just write about what I see. Here's some sample verses:

From Pain:

He rose on the surface of it like the layer of water on top of a wave
that won't break - you've seen those swells -

cold and moving like something breathing you can't see, collecting and
collecting until it seems uncontainable, heaving on and on, rising and

rising and growing bigger.


From The Gate:

I had no idea that the gate I would step through
to finally enter this world

would be the space my brother's body made



From What the Living Do:

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the
window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing
so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm
speechless:
I am living, I remember you.


If you enjoy reading poetry, I'd recommend giving Marie Howe a try. If you don't like poetry, try it anyway. Reading poetry helps me look at the world with eyes just a little more open.

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