These little birds flit
around the house
lighting here and there,
sitting on the counters,
standing on the chairs,
zooming through the kitchen.
They make “holy spirit water”
and play church, wedding, and workers,
after post office, house, and kitchen-shopping.
Screaming-mad and cackling-happy
these growing-up friends
make their way through the days
and I watch and hover and release and hold
and grasp and give and wait for their light
to open up my darkness.
“God is always beyond God, the iconoclast par excellence,
who over and over breaks out of the forms and symbols of our making.”
~ Bernard J. Lee, SM
I stand at the sink
scrubbing the shiny steel pan
when my littlest one asks me to read.
I ask for his patience,
one, two, three times, and
so he reads to me,
“Mom is beautiful, her hair,
her face, she is beautiful.
Her heart is love.”
And then I know
the vast and mighty love
that pours itself from the smallest vessels.
The rubied pearls of pomegranate
sparkle in their halved bowl,
the depth of red juice filling in the gaps
where the membrane segments and cradles
the seeds like yolks in whites in shells.
The full leafed plants languish
in the November garden
while the children push their root
systems into their still-warm earth,
crushing the bright arils between their teeth,
exploding the tart-sweet mysteries
of love’s reciprocity, of grasping and giving.