Touching

I looked at you,
You looked at me.
You smiled . . .

The sun was warm,
The wind was gentle,
You were reaching,
We were touching . . .

A fawn was chasing
Down a mountain road.
A pair of birds
Flew close overhead.

You were smiling
You were reaching
We were touching . . .

A Moment

A moment . . . gray, lonely,
A wispy strand of smoke rising,
Tree boughs swaying—

Rain on a window pane,
A tick-tock clock . . . a heartbeat,
Emptiness encasing.

Checkered tablecloth, empty coffee cup,
A wispy strand of smoke rising,
Upon a moment chasing.

Song Of Tears

Snow stones slid
Across ice.
Pained face—
Pressed,
Knotted lace . . . window pane.

Feelings that ebb and swell tighten in my throat, but I hold back the tears. She is so small and frail now. Her oxygen tube a necessity like an alien movie. The box of Kleenex showcases a sickroom. A sickroom filled with sunshine streaming in through the window, painfully reminding me that life is normal everywhere else. The room is filled with flowers . . . little cards attached, a Christmas tree and remnants of ribbon from a Christmas celebrated a few days early. I hug her and feel her shaking inside. If only I could hug the cancer out of her body.
My mind’s eye still sees her laughing and calling out to me . . . "Come on, let’s go— Let’s go to the coast today." "What?" "Let’s go!" "But we can’t just go . . ." "Of course we can." We went to the coast that day and played in the sand. We walked the beach with the wind in our hair and we laughed. Everything was funny. The next time I saw her she said, "Come go to the movies with me. Patriot opens today and I need someone to cry with me." "Do you like Mel Gibson?" "Yes, he’s my favorite." "Mine too." We went to the movies and cried together.

We’ve laughed together and cried together. We’ve prayed together. We’ve had lunch together and grown together. She is my sister in the Lord. She is my sister.

Hugging her mother as I leave is most difficult. Tears well in her eyes as she whispers, "Why is God taking her instead of me?" Her questioning look expects an answer from me. I have none.

Vessel

I write to calm the soul mostly, whether it’s ideas filtering down from rays of sun on the beach or explosions in the middle of the night that end up scribbled out on a note pad near-by. My intended quest is always to refine and improve on those sudden bursts and floating thoughts that come sporadically and leave me rejoicing, or sometimes pondering. Whichever be the case, I am a vessel being filled, but never becoming completely full. Sometimes I’ll happen upon an idea that lingers and begins to take shape until finally, I just have to put it to words, or sometimes I wait, intensely, for an idea to fall from heaven, each word, each letter falling exactly in its proper place. Each person I meet or place I visit along the way influences me in some way or another, all becoming sweet poetry on the page.
My goal is always to share with my reader what a mountain stream sounds like, or how a summer forest smells. I want my reader to feel the warmth of a smile, the adrenalin of a chase, and the taste of a tear.
I rely heavily on a higher power to lead me. Even though I don’t always understand His direction, I could never have come as far as I have without that leading. My constant plea is always, "Fill my cup, Lord." He does not disappoint.