My dear boy,
You are a gift, a compact, sturdy,
unbridled, whirlwind of loving kindness.
I love when I am caught up in your world
and your awareness, your forgiving and your forgetting.
You are big, and your name is heavy, borne by kings and lifted by saints,
lived by farmers and loved by friends, you are beloved,
you are a grand vision unfolding in the fields of our love,
ripening in the heat of God’s plans, resting in the roots of earth’s love,
a gift to me and to the world.
May you be always at rest on the wings of Christ’s love,
nuzzled beneath God’s grace and covered by Our Lady’s mantle.
May you be blessed, forever and ever and always.
We make this life together,
our own dusty prints over the road;
our own hands making up
and turning down the beds;
our own mouths tasting
the bitter and the sweet, the salty and the sour;
like Rumi’s chick pea and cook,
we are each other’s teacher,
hitting each other with the skimming spoon,
boiling in our passions and in our sufferings,
in our mysteries and in our unknowings.
And these baby chick peas
we think we are cooking; they are
cooking us, the little gurus, the little lights,
the little creatures bedazzling our tapestry,
its bedraggled edges torn through sleeplessness
and sorrows. We are all jumping in and out
of this blessing pot together, our understanding
deepened and flavored, our love seasoned and spiced.
Our beds warmed and cooled; you are my blanket,
I am your pillow; they our comforters, we their bed.
Our footprints pressing deep and creating distinction.
We carry each other over the road, through the joys.
Christ within us, keeping together.
The paper hive hung all November long,
a landmark of spherical woody pulp
uncovered by an old Autumn’s barrenness.
It was our story for days and weeks,
and then it fell, swept from its high limb
by wind or rain or hungry birds.
We watched it in the flickering sun
day by day, fluttering on the ground
as it tore and disappeared.
It was our story for days and weeks
until I couldn’t tell it anymore; we would
wait for Spring and find a new one.
Now our eyes scan and search
this rhythmless season, this unmetered verse,
for budding greens and papered homes,
for all the new places our stories will be grown.