"Music was my refuge.
I could crawl into the space
between the notes
and curl my back
against the loneliness."
- m. angelou
the days
were long when
she was
small
too much noise
for a heart that thrived
inside the stillness
of a softer light,
the filtered
lens of
dawn and dusk
a child that
longed for
the deckled edges
of a gentler
season,
the subtler notes of
poetry and
psalms,
the faded colors of
something
handled often
and so well-loved --
fabric frayed and
tears stained
with hope and sorrow,
comfort
and
sleep
she searched for
corners
where the gold
of lamplight
barely
reached -- yet
just
enough for
reading
Dickens and
James,
Austen and
Bronte
she sought the
strains of
DeBussy and
Barber,
leaned into the the
sorrowing
notes --
minor chords
that gave her space to
cry
fat, hot
tears that
would not come in the
bright company
of
a DJ's
choice --
the top ten
heard on
a summer's day
by the
neighborhood
pool
she found her
home in
snow falling on
still waters
a place
where
geese rose and
circled,
and
hungry
deer
tiptoed through
the pinions
as tenderly as
the
first notes
of
an adagio
for
strings
low,
sad,
and
sweet --
she
held
her breath
for this
was what she'd
waited
for
and she
curled herself
into that
quiet
moment of
grace
and the
tears
fell
as
soft
as
snow
"snow on snow
had fallen,
snow, on snow
on snow...”
~ c. rossetti
"all nature
teaches
God's love
to man..."
- m. b. eddy
i sit at your
feet
waiting
i need to know
how to
love
how to be as instant as
the chamomile
that raises her head
from the lifted
boot heel
and breathes a perfumed
sigh upon
its
retreating step
i ache to find the
place in me
that loves with the
devotion of
a dove,
and waits as patiently
as a frozen
river for
the sun's soft kiss
to waken her
each
spring
i curl myself against
the gnarled oak
and listen for her
guidance --
how to bend towards the light,
and lean into the wind.
how to not be so burdened
by the weight of
cold indifference,
or uprooted from her sense of
place
and purpose
when floods descend
and there is
nothing left to
hold her
here
i watch the eagle,
the heron,
the teal
fearless in their trust
that
unseen
thermals will lift them,
hold them,
raise them up
and i
pray my trust in
what I cannot
see is
greater than my
faith in
what seems so
solid,
and yet
promises nothing but
its history of
empty clay pots
filled with
disappointed
hopes
i turn my face to catch
the last ray of
sun before it descends
behind a western range
and discover that
i am not alone,
but surrounded by
a universe
bowed in worship,
all creation
seeking
His face,
hungering for His
message of
Love
"be
kind
to
one
another"
He
whispers
and
we sigh
in
unison
oh, yes
we
remember
to be kind
"Nature's
first and last lessons
teach man
to be kind...”
~ ibid.
