It’s delicate,
the egg and womb,
the egg and nest,
the egg and the world.
I’m walking on Spring’s soft ground,
a long thought, winding through broken light,
sweeping over blue sky,
living in God’s big love.
It’s delicate,
the egg and womb,
the egg and nest,
the egg and the world.
I’m walking on Spring’s soft ground,
a long thought, winding through broken light,
sweeping over blue sky,
living in God’s big love.
I see the water-filled sky
and its broken light; I see its
clouds, swept milky-white.
We’re practicing looking up,
looking out and up
rather than forward and down,
and it’s working,
the veil
I’m almost seeing through
is a fluttering life lived imperfectly
within the vastness of
God’s big heart.
When the night comes and wind
swirls past the windows, our little ones roar
and rail against bedtime. Darkly
they sulk off to brush their teeth, blowing
sighs through their lips, miserable like winter’s
cloud-covered sky, empty like its bare
landscape. The day’s done in a snap,
the crack of snowman’s brittle twig, his limbs
twisted and crooked, pointing across
the yard to nowhere. Finally they settle,
and we wish them dreams of spring’s
warm happy sun and summer’s green garden path.