Sprout Song

I love the crackling sound of soil

soaking in water freshly fallen,

where newborn sprouts, skyward stretching,

glisten with beads of liquid light.

 

What is it in the human spirit that

longs to protect these fragile shoots –

to peer into their earthen pots

and cheer their growth with pulsing heart?

 

Perhaps an answer lies within

seeds still dormant in our heart’s earth,

long ago fallen from pods of promise

into fertile ground awaiting birth.

 

These seeds within house mystery flowers

whose germination we both fear and crave –

what might our kernel-sheltered longings

become if they climb to taste the day?

 

Will they meet a brisk wind that knocks them flat

or have time to grow roots to give them strength?

Does a chance to blossom outweigh the risk

of a late frost’s cruel and deadly kiss?

 

Curled in darkness the questions lie thick,

like soil piled in mounds upon those seeds

who’ve all but forgotten that, at their core,

they were shaped and crafted for so much more.

 

But the sprouts upon their tenuous stems

sing down and call our souls to dare:

“Come, oh come into the light –

leave angst below and breathe new air!”

 

And so we heed their beckoning song,

echoes of the still, small voice within,

whose waves of love assure us now

that even bruised reeds he will not break.

 

New courage pulsing, upward we climb,

splitting shadows along our way,

safe in knowing that whatever may come

we grow in the garden of the eternal Son.

April 26 & July 29, 2020

Turn Aside

Reaching in brambles

beside the sliding stream,

in fading daylight purple

fingers pluck their prize –

juicy red lumps turned

dark by sunlit days,

now gathered one by one

for an evening snack.

 

Intent but still aware

of passersby,

I see him see me

bent upon my task –

a fellow cyclist quite

content to stroll

as Sabbath gift ebbs

to its weekly close.

 

As he in turn leans

down to taste the treat,

a knowing smile is

born within my eyes –

savoring the joy of

helping others see,

my heart gives thanks

for those whose eyes

changed mine.

 

Along this same path

several weeks before,

still chattering their

delight in baby ducks,

my two young teachers,

Moses-like, turned aside

to gaze at “this great sight”

gracing a bush.

 

Perhaps my sandals

should have been

stripped off

upon what I soon

found was holy ground –

a promise of deliverance

from the rush,

when blackberry juices

dance across my tongue.

July 26, 2020

He must Crescendo

I've been blessed by the opportunity to serve for a number of years at Crescendo Summer Institute (CSI), a master class and festival for talented young musicians in Tokaj, Hungary. 

It is always a highlight of my year, thanks to the wonderful people and breathtaking ways God works there. 

Unfortunately this year, due to Covid-19, CSI can't be held in person, but there will be an online program to remind us that "Apart, we are still together." On the eve of CSI 2020, I'm reminded of this poem I wrote on the final morning of CSI 2019.

4 August 2019 – Sunday Morning by the Tisza River

Like the river sliding silently past,

     two weeks of CSI have come and gone.

And before I go, my heart pauses with wonder

     at the thousand points of light held in

     the space of days, spread like winking diamonds

across the surface of the sun-speckled river,

     filling a field with fireflies on a summer night –

The light of a smile shared

     A hand squeezed in blessing

Bursts of laughter around a lunch table

     Tears met by a caring friend

Freedom come – and coming

A Soul in stillness staring up at the stars

     in the inky blue night sky

Notes flowing from the depths of an artist’s heart

     as a teacher passes the flame to one who will carry it onward

And in it all we are held in the sweeping arms of the Father,

     at rest even in our work.

He must Crescendo and we must decrescendo.

(Beat Rink, the founder of Crescendo International, shared this idea during Creative Church, adding a Crescendo spin to John the Baptist’s words in John 3:30 – “He must increase, but I must decrease.”)

Treasure Seeker

The seaside is a treasure chest

Summoning the seeker with

Rhythmic billows

Alive with a million marvels

Waiting ever so patiently for

One willing to stoop

And truly See

Miles away, its waves still ripple

Upon my heart’s shore –

A kept seashell’s whirl

Inviting me to bend low and,

In stillness, follow its shimmering

Spiral toward treasures

Curled within

July 16, 2020

A poem born from the wonder of seashells gathered at the Pointe du Conguel in Quiberon on July 15.