Tag Archives: Catholic poetry

The Immeasurable

My days are measured in stacks of clothes and dishes,
morning passing into night through plates of food and containers of water.
I remember yesterday in the deliciousness of re-warmed stew;
I see the future in little pajama-shirts I will never fold again.

My children’s days are measured in the cards they will play
and the apple crisp they will enjoy – what they will get to do before bedtime –
not often in what they have done, rarely in what they are doing.
Questions:  “When it’s time…?”  Declarations:  “When I’m older….”

My God’s days are measured in gifts of love,
sacrifices of sleep, of time, of self.
Beyond even the certainty of sunrise,
he packs together, shakes down, overflows.

Autumn comes cleanly into my day.

Autumn comes cleanly into my day.
It has us wearing jackets
and opening windows, stacking books
and rearranging toys; it has us moving furniture
and wiping baseboards, walking to school
and praying in church.

The three little ones and I stop in at the sanctuary.
We are there with two women, mopping and dusting,
and we have our first practice sitting with God.
Jesus in the tabernacle; Jesus in our heart.
It lasts twenty seconds.
(Success!).

After nap we pop outside for swinging and soccer,
but the two youngest stoop beside our out-of-service flower-pot,
spying rain around the bottom, and dip their hands
in the dirt-flecked water.  Over and again:  “Amen.  A-men!” he says,
fingers touching forehead.  “Amen,” she smiles, crossing herself.
Christ comes cleanly into my day.

Living Miracles

These miracles, so bright I cover my eyes;
they bound, glide, skip before me and beside.

She rides his old training bike with eyes halfway closed;
he jukes and zags in front as she laughs from her toes,

and the little girl plays “touch each stone” along the way;
then it’s “touch the shoulder” when she finds me out of place.

Baby boy plays at cars, trucks, and tractors,
making their noise, making laughter.

The air moves and settles differently tonight;
it is the autumn coming, the new slant of light.

Ah, this wind, sweet-covered in leaf and seed-pod;
these miracles, rain-bursts of exhausting love.

They are four together and apart
sparkling each with their own purpose, their hearts

beating sorrowful now and again, though joy comes down with storms,
growing hurts, but this light hurts more.