sometimes (waiting to be) ~


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I’ll stay
here beside
if you start the fire
from pieces remembered
the same
another so cold
you thought I was leaving
back through the days
I came

led by a dream
fearful of nothing
but the loss
of your warmth
in the night
the feel of your whisper
echoed in silence
returned from the edges
I waited your light

to save me
from something
darker than death
deeper than sorrows
I’ve known
the way your smile shines
when you wrap me
a moment of tender
willing me home

where love is made
by a hand holding mine
waiting to be
forever surrendered
just before dawn –
a kiss
then another

. . .

known by love ~


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sweeter now
the ache forgiving
of moments past –
surround me here
an ancient quilt
of almost whispers –
words of living
folded near

page to page
as wish to wanting
lives beyond the ones
we live
songs forgotten
yield in singing
love resounds
in all we give

let with grace
these truths repeated
til prayer becomes
a place of rest
warmed by faith’s
eternal season
known by love –
as love

. . .

heartbeats aligned ~


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is the measure of grace
a verse without rhyme
a solitude born
of the staying

a path I remembered
would bring me to here
held by a breath
to your memory

a life before this
was love unaware
the weaving of dreams
into moments
one day

we sat in the still
at the edge of goodbye
sharing the truth
of how the stars shine
and where the wind goes
taking pieces of us

unafraid of the keeping
allowing for love
as heartbeats
to the passing of days

as birth unto light
a heaven intended
to look for us here
in the fold
of an always –

a reason
we came
released in the letting –
as verse without

. . .

rememories ~


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Over the weekend, I had a moment – an epiphany of sorts. Perhaps it was just a fleeting view through an almost empty glass, but it was good.

I was standing in the market browsing maple syrup options. I love maple syrup, and am somewhat of a snob when it comes to pancakes, waffles, butter, and syrup.

Anyway, back to the telling. There between the maple leaf shaped bottles and the plastic options for fat free, sugar free, and tasteless, was a bottle of Karo syrup.

My fingers lingered over the label, while my heart was racing backwards to a clapboard kitchen where my granny sat in a straight back chair not far from the woodstove. With the practiced hands of a chemist, she poured Karo syrup in a bowl and then a stab of butter.

With her tiny hands, she gripped the bowl and beat the concoction until it was the color of summer wheat. Then she would dip one piece of bread at a time (referred to as light bread by we southerners) into the sweet batter.

And one piece at a time, we would wait patiently for a piece to be passed to us. Our little bit of heaven – our divine sacrament for living a life swelled up with blessing.

But the ‘aha’ moment was in realizing that I hadn’t told that story, and it’s also quite possible that the memory is folded just as sweetly away by my sisters and brother – in a place where treasure needs not space or name. And the thought that I hadn’t shared made me a bit sad, for surely it is a felony against creation to hoard away the best parts of us, the stories of our becoming.

Bet you know what I had for dinner Sunday evening……..

Let us speak kindly of our beginnings, memorizing anew the parts where love made us at home.

. . .

reclassified ~


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Try as I might, from time to time I need reminding (or, as my Ma Hutch would have said, ‘a skillet to the head’). I can get so caught up in the drama that I forget the bottom line. I neglect the one thing that matters most.

If there’s a rule by which my daddy lives, it’s simply this. “Don’t ever let a problem become bigger than a person to love.” He makes it seem easy, to be honest.

And sometimes, it is easy. Like when everyone agrees or we’re all focused on that single one brilliant thing that takes our collective breath away.428e9a870d81a921d

But most of the time, opinions get caught in the middle. Egos stand in the way. Perceptions about things that no one even witnessed – well, a lot of things get in the way. And before you know it, we’re arguing about whether it’s too early to plant watermelon or too late to start a movie.

And the thing (love) that was absolutely the most important thing is somehow ‘managed over’, reclassified into the ‘not so important’ file in error.

That’s not to say that love is forgotten (I love you; it’s the liking that hangs me up). It isn’t. It’s just a second thought, something taken for granted that never should be. It’s the lone footnote that should have been the title.

My mother meddles in things that aren’t her business. My sister struggles with demons almost 30 years old. My children and grandchildren have lives of their own, plans of their own. The moon turns a jealous eye, and before we notice, another season is passed – another time not to come again.

But if we’re lucky (so blessed), that thing that mattered (love) – it remains. When the voices are lost in argument, opinions have burned away, and the quiet settles soft like the snore of a sleeping child – it is there (still).

So, today, before I respond too quickly to an email or a text, I remind myself that nothing is bigger than my love for these. Nothing I will allow.

in fields
where yesterday
petals crush the ground
with the memory
of every winter

bring me round
one more time
before the blossom fades
let me breathe
the sweet perfume
of love –
was never

. . .

things we might have said ~


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was ne’er the first
to let you go
miles on past the promise
you’d stay and I was
sworn to be your baby

a habit
sure to wear you down
a devil in a flannel gown
more than one
to drive you crazy

boots and lace
the dream replaced
kisses not for keeping
but for these
old memories

things we might have said

as proof of heaven
here on earth
graces ne’er
so undeserved
a picture of a picture
on the dresser
of your soul

I’ll make a place
for your returning
dare I keep
these embers burning
I was sworn
to be your baby

. . .

summer ~


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in this faraway moment
time is not erased
each grain of every wooden plank
calls out to and from centuries
of worship
the chipped paint
hymn to solitary prayer
over green fields
winds blow
with secrets common
to each faithful soul
yet remembered each year
springtime cannot touch this sanctity
and winter dares not destroy its promise
summer has parched temple lips
leaving words fragile on autumn’s
altars of color
yet nothing
has dimmed such beauty
nor reasons
that made it live

. . .

words I know by heart ~


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from here

how vast the realms
of I confess
a portion of my soul
was scattered
silver seeds
among the stars
wished upon by dreamers
awakened by the night
a canopy of stories –
with thread
the same as mars
smoke that stills
the canyons
before a raging storm
is captured to
the mirror I am holding
in my arms
eyes in shades
of abalone
words I know by heart
are whispered
by the sailor –
carried by the sea
backwards to a moment
overheard by sparrows
sharing secrets
with the dark

. . .


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