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.
“Being happy means entering wholeheartedly into everything – no matter what type of challenge it presents, no matter what the possible difficulties involved – entering into it body, soul, mind, and spirit. We have to enter into it in such a way that we’re no longer separated from what we’re doing. We forget ourselves at the same time that we give ourselves completely. And when we do enter into life totally and completely, then, if we stop and reflect for just a moment, we’ll notice that somehow we’re beginning to experience happiness. This is what we’re made for.”
~ The Monks of New Skete (In the Spirit of Happiness, 311)
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.