Speaking in Slices

Portions of me are hid within my soul:
a wild serenity; passion couched in reflection,
beneath a weary semblance of control
there breathlessly anticipate perfection.
And in some rare sweet moments of each day
life’s rush subsides; the clamoring world is still.
With chaos hushed by evening, then I’ll say
what may be said and hungry silence fill
with precious seconds—voiceless thoughts rehearsed
to peel back layers shielding who we were.
Here lying sundered listening to the universe,
its silent realizations wake and stir.
Then minds, though sure embraced when first they met,
convergence of the heart may hope for yet.

Magic Hour, Nine Twenty-Two

I gazed skyward into strawberry-laced
whipped cream, topping an azure cup
of heaven
as I glided down a street bearing
a philosopher’s name.

Summer has flown,
but no one told the cicadas,
for they continue their evening strain,
a throbbing rhythmic hum.
Vapor condenses on my windshield;
I pass a cemetery blanketed in fog,
a quilt obscuring memory stones
of love, loss, and hope.

It is my favorite hour of the day,
this time between times.
When color bathes the world,
transforming grey into lavender and
straw into gold.

The trees are tentative this September.
Reluctant to surrender the comfort
of their finery or exchange
their garments for what must soon
be shed.

Some yellow, some bronze peeks shyly
through a canvas of green.
But round the bend, one bold silver maple
stands amidst her envious peers.
She tries on her most elegant dress—
shocking red—
as she readies herself for the dance
of autumn.

Indecision

One step forward,
tentative, unsure, nearly drawing back.
Hands change their grip.

Another step follows the first,
leaving behind the safety of a cliff’s edge.
Universe tilts and whirls.

If God gave us wings
would this be too easy?
Would we flit, dip, and dive on
the currents of the wind
and never know the panic
of plummeting?

Don’t look down, they say.
The more likely you’ll lose balance.
But I look, and see the earth anew:
Shimmering seas sparked by a blinding sun,
meadows of lavender and mountains of jade.

Indecision grips, shakes resolve.
Shall I step yet again? Or relent
and dive from this high-wire o’er paradise?

Angels

Three messengers God sent you,
as to Abraham our father,
to give you promise and a future.
They ate your food and
drank your drink,
these guests, these gifts.

So neither weary of the visit
nor laugh at the promise.
For dreams of yesterday are vapor,
condensing on a darkened glass and
creating a misshapen world,
twisting the future as
through a lens encrusted in frost.

Press your hand against the window
to wipe away the mist,
and tomorrow bursts into clarity.
Shadows once blurred bloom
in a vivid panoply of color when
you gaze past the pane.

For there may your messengers—
gifts—like frankincense, gold, and myrrh,
bow low before their Lord of glory.