O my soul, why do you grieve
when it is the time for singing praise?
how can you proclaim, “Here I am,”
when you are not even recollected to yourself,
too full of the reproaches of the world
that tells you God has left you barren.
But it is you, yourself, who have stolen your joy,
thrown out with the promise
that you are called by the Lord for a purpose —
to shine and rejoice in your Maker,
a star in the night sky
while your people await the Dawn.
So if you cannot offer praise,
make a sacrifice of your sorrow,
giving it up to receive
what can be born of joy.
and consumed by the thought
of what others will see,
I almost miss the truth
of what you offer,
a way to shed this disease
wrapping my soul,
and uncover again
the smooth skin,
the trustful innocence,
of a child.
what you ask of me,
who you call me to be.
and shouldn’t it be easy
to be your truest self?
hiding in a rocky cleft
and watching from the hillside
or in the cool shade behind the flaps of a tent,
I am waiting for a whisper of life,
a cloud of dust on the horizon
announcing your presence;
Love is on his way
and I would greet him with joy
and hear what he has to say.
For it is in the passing
that he lets his voice be heard.
“The Lord, the Lord…”
and suddenly I remember
the sound of my own name too.
For this, I would spend all I have,
my very life in the waiting.
axé, my friend
there is no enemy here,
only good between us
and I give you what I have —
any truth or beauty or life
that is in me, in my soul
for this too is not mine
— poor myself,
I was given these things
to share with you,
with the world
to make us all the richer
mowing over dandelions
is not quite the same
as the childlike wonder
of blowing away seeds and fluff,
the wind catching and floating off
tiny parachutes full
of imagination and dreams,
the world an endless possibility
of happy endings.
but there is something
in driving the motor over their bowed
and weed killer-sprayed heads,
the blade spinning impassively
and the wheels flattening their discarded stems,
while small puffs of seedlings escape
from under the sides of the mower
like dying breaths.
the small joys of adulthood.
yesterday it snowed a late spring snow,
and today i watched heavy, wet mounds fall
from the branches, already laden with green.
rather than sitting in silence,
the weight of cold and frozen memories
keeping them still,
exposed limbs blanketed and tucked away,
the branches let the snow slip off in shrugs,
wet leaves dancing,
sending showers down,
too full of life, too awake to sleep another day.
When you say, “I will give you a new heart,”
you do not mean that you will throw away
the one I already have
like a totaled car or a broken dish.
For you, new is a word
that means returning something
to its original purpose,
restoring its former glory.
Which is why you make reusable hearts,
something good of your own hand.
an up-cycle, this heart,
re-purposed into a new love,
what it was always made for.