In The Coop

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In The Coop

This may be my Walden Pond
Wired place of peace that passes even
My own understanding
Why being hemmed in with these beguiling creatures
Is often my preferred place to be
Still and rest among the fowl plummage

This may be my rock
Here among the current flock of nine
I hide and find a reason
To study nature’s brilliant
Rhythm and routine

At Five they will roost
And I’ll be forced to turn back into the world again
The one where fear and pain and joy collide
Outside

This may be my island
My pilgrimmage to solace and relief
I know the neighbors have begun to talk
And question why I go inside
And talk to them, yes I do
(Dolittle did do that too, you must recall)

Naturally, I do not care a ‘tall
Nor worry about world affairs
While I am hiden in full view
inside my beloved coop

Where I will hide only a little longer, in plain view
A refugee fleeing from the headlines
I share the name of those I  shelter
With
Joy will come in the morning
Alleluia and amen

A Triptych

heart bright in wood

One

It is a strange thing, your leaving
In increments
This slow fade, pains us
The dialing down and dialing back
I wish for your speedy recovery
That you would return to us
It is a strange thing, your leaving. like a dismantling
We are all coming apart at the seams
I never liked one thousand two hundred and fifty piece jigsaw puzzles
Now I like them even less
Pieces are missing from what I can see of you
This slow fade, pains me
I watched you leave us slowly
Someone took the big fat pink eraser to your mind
Long minutes of searching drag by
And you’re still unable to find that lost piece of your vocabulary
The elusive word “chipmunk” escapes
Cruel game of cat and mouse of the mind
But peace attends us in its mercurial way
In a blink we are somehow fine with it all
A fractured picture
It looks nothing now like the photo on the box
Somehow, it looks like this
It is how we are meant to be
Hinged to the past by ligament and thread
Bone and blood
I will be your memory
And you will always be mine

Two

August has come with her goodbyes
I count and recount
Pack mules on every corner
Of every street, the scene repeated
A stuttering and stammering of goodbye
A grand exodus of fallen leaves
And gardens burned past recognition
Once full of promise
Now the leaving has begun
Can you see me waving my hand in hope
Of what will come
I know a secret of these cycles
Spun round more than once
I know the story’s end
The one this Earth is writing

Three

I seemed to think you would remain
Laden with fruit
A freak, an anomaly
Bearing forever
Always dripping with abundance
Your branches
Like a run-on-sentence
No break in the chain of goodness
A train-wreck of the overflow
And last time I checked
You bore one, singular and sweet
A parting gift for your beloved
For that I am grievous
That it is over
The faucet stopped its once endless flow
I let myself think it would never end
For that
I am a fool in the shadow of your love

Waiting On Perfection

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Waiting On Perfection

There is a fine brown line between the fig on the vine
Ripe and ready
And the fig on the tree
Still nursing at the breast of the mother-source
Hours away still
From table ready

I have stalked the tree
Begged the fruit
Pleaded and cajoled
For the sweet release of well-timed fruit

There is a dance of courtship
When waiting on perfection

My eagerness to slice the fig
Place it on a bed of young arugula
Covered, no smothered, in cotton white goat cheese
Clouds my epicurean judgement

All decision-making skills go out the window
And I
Hungry and in need
Eager, but unknowing
When to wait and when to go

Pick the time I believe is best

I would wait on perfection
If she and the tree would speak softly and lead me into the thick of the laden-branches with knowledge from the tree
Covered with pea-green youth
Whisper go or stay
Grant me the patience I do not have
Job-like and long-suffering, take pity
Gift me with Solomon-like wisdom of certainty
And precision

But I am growing older now
And I am content with imperfect figs
Deeming
Perfection grossly over-rated

For now,
I am content
Perfectly
With every shade of brown
(Partial though I must admit to Cow’s Ear Brown)
I have no use for perfect fruit
Or perfect
otherwise

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People. I have a free subscriber-only letter. I do hope you’ve signed up. Letter One was sent last week. Letter Two releasing Friday. I think you might want to try it. Spoiler alert…  I promise it is not perfect. Just filled with grace.

The link is here. It is super simple. See you there.

.Click here (A Quiet Place For Words)

Joining Laura Boggess

On Finding A Quiet Place

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On Finding A Quiet Place

There is a paradox in these hours spent awake asleep on the sea
Uncertain at what it is
Exactly
That lies below
Confident in what we see
The surface gives a nod with this very much alive
Twinkling
Like a million silly winks
Her countenance shines, her invitation to join her
We slap slap slap the wet wild surface, with little boat we trust
Like an old man slaps a toe-headed child’s back
In an overly familiar act of brutal love

We grant the mystery of the unseen
A sweet secret keeping place
We have seen them released to us
Confidence builders left as fragmented treasures
Gifts from the sea, encrypted letters
We read always, between the lines

We are here
By choice and grace
A combination which comes around in life
More often than I can count
Though it feels rarer than a left handed conch
At times
We must speak it, in unison
To remember it is true

We have found a quiet place
Gathering moments
Away from our shore
Lost for awhile
At the mercy of the mysterious
Deep blue sea

We must whisper it, in a prayer voice
To Him
In salty, sea-foamed gratitude

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Please join me at my new writing home, “A Quiet Place For Words”. A place I have carved our for pulling words through the blank canvas of the page. It is quiet there. And I am settling in and unpacking in this new place. Still blogging here, but making a home too for you and me in a subscriber only format. Click here to sign up (A Quiet Place For Words) It is free. I like it there. But more importantly, I hope you do.

Joining Sandra Heska King for Still Saturday