Perimeter

Fingers trace them on a map,

the new limits of my existence –

one kilometer from home

No more bike rides to my favorite garden

to watch daffodils give way to tulips

No more strolling cobbled streets

bustling beneath half-timber houses

No way to deliver a gift to my friend

for her birthday tomorrow

(In these days of contagion,

gates are locked, streets still,

and hugs deferred)

Like a shut-in falcon

stripped of skies,

I hear the call of Beyond

But is this new

perimeter

a cage

or an invitation?

For right here,

within the compass-drawn

circle of possibility, lie

cherry trees in bloom,

a shining canal with sparrows

gossiping along its banks,

neighbors whose nightly applause

echoes from windows thrown

wide upon the square

Here is food to nourish bodies and

books whispering of

souls gone before

A telephone link to loved ones

settling into their own new limits,

down the street or an ocean away

And here is a heart whose

contours hold mystery –

paths yet to wander,

music to be made and

poems still to be written… 

-------

Mary Oliver was right:

“Going to Walden is not so easy a thing

As a green visit. It is the slow and difficult

Trick of living, and finding it where you are.”

Rennes, France

March 28, 2020

Day 12 of Coronavirus confinement

I was called...

I was called by the

morning to sit a space

before the rumble of the day

swallowed silence

To take inventory of the

shelves of my soul

emptied by grasping

hands of yesterday

To breathe the

slow exhale of release

and fill lungs anew,

tendrils of life spreading

throughout my being

To yield to Spirit

restocking today’s strength,

knowing I have no warehouse –

Only the certain hope of

daily deliveries

Written from the @artist.and writing prompt “I was called”

March 25, 2020

“Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow

Great is thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me.”

Photo by Martijn Baudoin on Unsplash

Wonder beyond brokenness

Mirror shards of shattered plans

lie strewn in the crosswalk

We thought we were passing from

here to there,

hurrying along life’s highway,

but an invisible roadblock

stopped us fast

Stooping, we peer at the fragments,

all our scheduled schemes

splintered in the space of days

The fractured pieces carry questions:

what might tomorrow bring and

who shall we be in that tomorrow?

We may mourn what’s broken – yes –

but each slice of blue sky

lying upon the pavement

bears an invitation –

to look up – to look around –

To pause and skip our way through

a child’s hopscotch

scrawled on cement sidewalk,

hearing her laughter

echo in our hearts

To let our eyes meet those of a

passing stranger, acknowledging

the shared humanity

beneath our irises

To lift our gaze from the broken

glass beneath our feet

to the heavens it reflects,

where cherry trees are blooming

once again

To wonder if the slivers of our existence

point to something greater

than the sum total of their parts

Rennes, France

March 24, 2020

Home is...

Home is…

an unlocked door

an echo of belonging

It’s the quickening in my spirit as I walk

through the airport to meet my parents

at baggage claim

It’s feeling the squish of carpet beneath my feet

Home is release –

an unburdening

Rest after a long journey

It’s dresser drawers lovingly

emptied just for me

It’s hopping up on the kitchen counter

to sit and chat with Mom

It’s knowing you’re wanted –

     awaited

          welcomed

safe to stop pretending and

let down your guard

Home is licking cookie dough off the beaters

watching hummingbirds out the back window

sitting at the piano and finding an old friend

Home is enfolded in Dad’s hug

belly laughs that bathe the soul

the grace of being known

It’s the sound of little feet

slapping against the floor as

nephew and nieces run for hugs

It’s “Push me higher” and

“Halle, look!” and “Sing it again”

It’s Grandfather in his chair imparting

insight from his latest book

Gram’s hands setting the table for a feast

Gathering around it with those you love

Home is memories curled in the

swirls of a conch shell and the

peace I feel as the ears of my heart

listen to its waves

Home is knocking goodnight

on the bedroom walls and

falling asleep beloved

March 19, 2020

Forget Me Not

Pharmacists shield behind masks at the corner store

The virus is spreading* – but not as fast as the

germs of fear on the internet

They will suffocate us if we let them

But out in the late afternoon sunshine,

a little boy pokes his stick into the mud with glee

while a moorhen makes its watery landing

A family on bikes gobbles like turkeys as they fly past

a mother, tousling her son’s curls while he’ll still let her

A young girl collects treasures from the rock pile,

pink bike helmet gracing her head unworried

with thoughts of sickness and death

Students recline on canal banks near a willow,

their laughter mingled with its weeping

while a man sits fishing, cemetery

stretching in the distance behind him

How little separates the living from the dead,

celebration from mourning

I breathe the fresh March air into my lungs,

knowing we shall all cross from here to there

But the city is building bridges over the canal,

an ode to life in the face of looming death

Visits are forbidden at the nursing home

but smiles passed through the window

link my heart to the grandmas inside

A man whistles while he walks past

forget-me-nots springing up in gardens

I will not forget.

photo by Lyn D on Unsplash

March 14, 2020 

three days before Coronavirus confinement

*5,614 deaths worldwide as of today

Advent

Gliding backward through space and

Forward through time
Morning hush blends with the
Repetitive hum of train wheels
Turning over rails
Drawing me ever closer to my
Destination.

In the gray gloom
Eyes welcome rest,
Thoughts floating on the
Fog of semi-slumber
Meandering earthward,
Self-ward, God-ward –

Then, almost imperceptibly, it comes.
With eyes still closed, I feel its
Advent in all my being,
Murmuring a promise that all
Tragedy will come untrue.
With rays like waves lapping the seashore
I feel it bathe cheek and heart
Hope wrapped up and carried in the
Gift of Light

With childlike delight I unwrap the present
Opening my eyes to greet the
Sunshine streaming in long windows,
Winking through trees as train slides by

In the darkness of Before
I knew not that I was waiting
But now, held in dawn’s embrace
Sunlight points me gently
Homeward

March 9, 2020
On a Lyon-bound train

We did not break bread together today.

We did not break bread together today.

With church doors shut,

Christ’s body was scattered –

      an ear in Rennes

      an eye in Betton –

feeling the depth of our need for one another,

measuring at last the value of

      what we often take for granted.

In one living room,

a family sat on their couch,

guitar and Bible in hand,

hearts turned with compassion

toward the flock of the Good Shepherd,

sitting before our screens hungry for hope.

Even as the virus claimed lives,

our voices joined theirs to praise

the One who conquered death,

pushing back fear with each rising note.

The father spoke the words of the perfect Son:

“Peace I leave with you;

my peace I give you.

Not as the world gives do I give to you.

Let not your hearts be troubled,

neither let them be afraid.” (John 14:27)

We did not break bread together today.

But gathered in worship online,

Christ’s broken body reached

hands of healing toward my heart,

inviting me to abandon agitation

as His Spirit of peace nourishes mine.

Rennes, France

March 15, 2020

Written during the Covid-19 pandemic

A poem upon moving

In March of 2019, I moved from the apartment I had been renting for 9 years to a new one. This is a poem I wrote shortly before my move. A year later, I'm filled with such gratitude at all this change brought about in my life!

Between

With each piece of sticky tack
I peel from your walls
You're moving from Home
to Not-my-Home.

Filling box by box with color and memories
Till I'm left with a dizzying swirl of white -
made brighter by daylight
flooding through curtain-less windows

All at once reluctant and eager to go,
A new space to make my Place awaits
But today's steps are the
Dance of Between -
Treading with gratitude as
packing becomes a prayer of goodbye


Rennes, France
February 17, 2019

Magnolia

With a hush befitting the

Presence of Majesty

I approach –

Footfalls like

Felt on a wooden floor

Heart aflutter with

Spring wonder in the

Dwindling daylight

Like a Bride bedecked, she

Awaits her Love

Pinky-white petals cupped to the

Heavens where a half-moon

Serenely returns her smile

Beneath her rambling branches

My body bends in praise

Arms crowning the gesture like her

Diadem of blossoms

Spreading skyward to

Greet her Maker and mine

My whole being lingers –

Breathing beauty into the deepest

Branches of my soul’s lungs

Almost afraid to exhale till her

Carpet of petals

Teaches release

We needn’t fear the letting go

As gratitude loosens grip

Hands unfurl to receive

Tomorrow’s treasures

Parc du Thabor

Rennes, France

March 2, 2020

To My Neighbor: A Farewell

It all matters

The bells pealing in homage to

The life of a man I hardly knew

The kiss on the cheek of his bride,

Face alight with the flame of

Love even in her grief

The words on the lips of the priest

Pointing toward Hope in eternal

Dwellings, where, body freed from its bondage,

He plays his guitar once more

The peace of Christ passed between strangers

Brought near by one life well-lived

The sunlight piercing through storm clouds

Then yielding to wind and rain,

Reminding us that suffering and joy

Are held together in one overflowing cup

The hail rebounding off my windshield as I sit

Lingering with the memories of all I saw and heard

Changed by a neighbor’s living and dying

My heart breathes a prayer for those who mourn:

May you be…

Held          when grief’s waves crash

Carried      in the protecting arms of God

Resting      in the woven hammock of His love

Kept          until you, too, are

Home

Rennes, France

February 29, 2020

(written after attending the funeral of my former neighbor)
Photo by Steph Q on Unsplash