Do we know the history,
the genealogy of our faith,
whose shoulders we rest within,
or the stone we’ve stumbled on?

If we listen will we see?
Were they restless as they grew,
Was there contentment in the fog?
Can they, will they, help us now?

If we listen, will they lead
and help us on our way?
Can I stay abiding,
and if I listen will I see
the fear that set them free…
the pain that made them whole
…or the loss that gave them all?


Winter, pooling in the puddles of March
      with the smell of grass still frozen to the ground
         and the tamarack brown upon the marsh.

A lacy leaf,
a gray beauty, barely visible
from a different season.

The breeze strengthened
and direction changed,
   …the lengthened days
         will birth the
         … praying hands
from within the embryonic buds. 

Making the Bed

Today I made my bed
I knew the gift that had finished
the dreams becoming dust
but not the one that must begin

I pulled the sheets up tight
knowing no need for fright
the blankets next
for warmth tonight
my day’d begun
the gift of breath
within my lungs.

I smoothed the spread
and prayed for the day
To be covered and kept
that I might detect.
I made a pact to follow the Light
as I pulled the sheets up tight.

The Winter Crow

I posted this last year in April as we waited for another snow storm.  Now it is the end of February and we are waiting for a possible 8-10 inches of snow.  I am tired of winter.


No soul can bear
the cold for length
So fly you crow
of winter.
The howling north wind
changing south
to bring the whispered
We ache to hear
the silenced song
of brook and bird
and bee,
So fly you
crow of winter
with your bracken
and your bones

Desert Walk

I am so thirsty
my lips are split
my throat parched
my voice is gravel
I hear the whispered, “come” 

I am so thirsty
face  is blistered
arms beet red
my gait uneven
I hear the whispered, “come” 

I am so weary
this wasteland walk
where’s the cup
that will quench my heart
I hear the whispered, “come”