Later You Will Understand

Perched on the counter beside her,

chattering of lands far away,

I watched her fill the kitchen sink

ankle deep with warm suds.

Then came the invitation.

Peeling off socks, I slid aching

arches into their bath,

where they met with the tender

touch of home – love wrapped

in hands shaped to serve.

It wasn’t the first time

my feet had surrendered into

welcoming hands,

but they were much tinier

when guided carefully 

from her womb, 

a “little footling breech”

who just couldn’t wait 

to meet her Mama.

As I pat my own feet dry

an ocean away,

a similar yearning 

is lodged in my heart – 

these past nine months

a different kind of waiting – 

not for birth but to feel

again her touch.

Savoring new hope 

in feet freshly washed,

my heart is drawn to 

the Savior who knelt,

the full extent of his love

poured out by hands which

cleansed both feet and hearts.

Spoken in the language 

of basin and towel,

his invitation called 

the beloved to yield

sullied feet and clamoring 

control to the hands of the 

shaper of stars and seas.

Sliding upon splashes,

his words danced forth:

“Later you will understand” – 

this love a mystery

spreading deeper still

as souls soak in its

boundless basin.

Perhaps those same words

floated in the air 

of her kitchen as she

followed the example he set,

tenderness transferred to

once tiny feet by my mother’s

caring caress. 

Like his dear friends

in the upper room,

I realized not what she

was doing. Only later,

across the sea,

would I understand – 

the love flowing with 

water through her fingers

bound us together

forevermore.

© Halle Thompson

September 26-October 24, 2020

“You do not realize now what I am doing, 

but later you will understand.” 

Jesus in John 13:7

Drawing by @trustandsee

Yellow Day ?

She told me today’s a yellow day.

I wanted to believe her -

that under the gray veil

pressing down the corners

of the sky and my lips,

dying leaves hold

sunshine on their backs

They might be soggy

from a long rain,

nostalgic for the crisp

crunch of before

or for days when

a golden orb warmed

their tender leaflets,

newborn fresh

Green was coursing

through their veins 

as they fluttered carefree

in the balmy breezes,

unaware the arc of their 

existence was bending 

downward

But now the bite of

autumn stopped it fast,

emerald giving way to gold

as they felt their fragility -

theirs calling out to mine

amidst raindrops streaking 

the windowpanes

She carried three of them

in her outstretched hand,

fingers exploring textures

as heartstrings were gently

tuned toward light -

hers and mine

Yes, a yellow day - 

when tender hearts 

join leaves aflame

to play a symphony of hope

October 13, 2020

photos by Oskars Sylwan, Rodion Kutsaev, Max Böhme & Roman Kraft on Unsplash

Unfinished

The world is full of unfinished poems.

The early lines flow like creamy honey,

ink spread across the page

like softened butter on

loaves fresh from the oven.

I feel the elation

of a puzzle-piece well-placed,

the joy of alliteration,

lines well-paced.

But then comes a time

when the pen runs dry.

The garden hose has kinks

and the dahlias are drooping.

The stack of scratch paper

where I scrawl my poems

grows ever thicker.

I wonder if this one

will end up there, too.

But perhaps that stack is 

not a graveyard but a

greenhouse --

A safe space for new-sprung sprouts

to send out roots,

unjudged by voices of haste.

I read that dahlias may droop

in times of stress --

Who doesn't when faced with the

unfinished poems of our lives?

But the secret of their sagging

stems is this:

water sent from leaves

to strengthen roots.

So when we feel that all our

poetry has turned to stammering

and the puzzle, once so thrilling,

is far from done,

Meet me in the greenhouse,

warmed by sunlight,

where a tender gardener

will write the lines to come...

October 4, 2020

Photo by Arno Smit on Unsplash