reading my old words and thinking they could be new words.

i don't stop making messes,
don't stop needing grace.
this is my honest soul,
all mixed up and on display.

that's all i have, the silence of my voice and the humble lowering of my head.

i know, you have no reason to love me. i know, i've messed it up.
but, also, the whisper,
i am thankful you aren't the accuser.  i am so very thankful.

the resurrection must be so good, so satisfying, the new jerusalem must be so complete, so full of shalom, that even if all of our present suffering does not end, the heart still trusts that the goodness of heaven is worth it.

the saturday before easter

his bones sat and waited.

growing stiff and groaning silent.

and i clean my kitchen

and wonder through tears

what to do with his silence.

and i wonder what it means

to hope in the midst of sufferings,

and i wonder if steven thought if

all men who ended in crucifixion would rise?

and i wonder how shaky hope became

when the three were thrown in a fire?

all this i think about on a saturday

afternoon preparing for my easter brunch-

is it that all women who are bent over

from infirmity that will stand tall again?

this, this resurrection, not a metaphor

or a pastel painting,

but this movement of blood and cells

after three days of death.

this death that was real and true

and this life that burst forth into it.

these things cannot be softened.

because, i, a girl, whose blood and cells are moving

am a lazarus in need of a resurrection.

let this -

this letting go,

this refusing to give into the affections,

this walking away from the affections that are not you,

this little death in me,

let this be an offering unto you.

and let you,

you who are Love,

you who are abounding in richness,

you who is rich in cattle and rich in grace,

let you pour through.

it is always in october that i

feel it the most.

the tugging on my nerves

to tell me that there should be a breeze,

or when my neck gently reminds me

to bundle up.

and this day, on the last of october,

i feel it strongest.

my bones grew strong with east coast iron,

and know nothing of the search for gold

or red dirt clay.

my bone knows how to walk quickly,

my bones only know how to walk quickly,

stopping only for traffic or the sudden gaze

on a red maple.

i must look upon the face of new york again,

i must drink in the atlantic grey soon.

----
the train station where i picked you up & you hugged me & told me I was real and I wanted you to kiss me, to prove that she wasn't.
there are so many pigeons, still. reminding me of that same day.
funny how pigeons can remind me of something so important. perhaps that was the beginning of this thing that i'm putting back together now.
----
my legs feel unsure in California among so mountains.

poets say it better /

than i know how to.

there are little things,

that may for a while,

or a long time,

make me cry.

like you.

like all of the hope i have stored up in you.

like knowing that you are discovering the

combination of vegetables and your favorite meal.

and knowing what such a discovery may mean:

there is relief.

tour de force

you were not a choice, as much as you were a force that ran up and down my fingers, up and down my spine.

you were not so much a choice, as a chance wind, overtaken, swept up and left ravished dizzy and dazed.

and this was not so much yesterday as years ago but we are all still left collecting thoughts and examining why's of your tour.

and you are betrothed now, or perhaps you wear a thin strip of gold around your finger, right or left hand, depending on the custom.

and he now shudders at your name, even when heard, even when read in the holy book, to think of --

and here i am choosing a man worthy of choice. and it is slower and less like violent love and more like the slow unfolding of a story written in springtime, written in meadows, written for blooming.

and we walk in seasons of night and day and winters and spring. and you were august, hot and melting, and he is april, subtle and unfolding.

i am not so happy for so many changes, so many days letting him sit with me as i sew back together the tears of my inner linen.

he gives me silk.

but, i am happy for the choice. the moments of brief clarity sitting and choosing: this is how i shall live.

i shall live in silk.

vegetable garden

i have found that love

is nothing like what i thought it would be.

rather,

an unglamorous

tugging and tearing of wills

a gentle laying down,

a fierce laying down.

a vegetable garden -

only a couple of sprouts

to indicate the carrots

we are waiting to feast on.

labor on, the soil is ripe

and the harvest rains

are pouring down.

she just believes in him. there wasn't any other explanation she could offer.

a mother, a lover, a friend.

she couldn't help but see all the glory just ready to burst forth.

wait for it. hold your breath and wait for it.

kingdom.

i am aching for heaven.

my bones cry out

with the rocks and the sea

for the return of glory,

for the fullness of glory.

my bones, twisted around my muscles

bend with weary burdens

from an undone world.

i am aching for heaven

in the tender depths

of my heart i cry out for more.

bridegroom,

take me beyond the hills

and let us sit under the tree

and whisper.

my affections bend and sway

and my eyes dart to see who is coming.

i want your eyes, beloved,

the singleness of your presence,

the sweet songs of your voice.

in the land of the broken,

i ache for heaven.

to sit at your feet, beloved

and hear the thunder clap at

the command of your voice.

to see your words flow out of

your mouth like ribbon

and wrap themselves around weary hearts

and bent over bodies

and watch life come forth.

i ache for life

when nothing is wrong

save the dull sickness that

i have felt since i first

felt your presence -

how much clearer life is when

your spirit is near -

how much sickness we have

that we never knew.

and spirit, come near.

i need more kingdom in my bones.

i am being covered in the holy spirit.

the slightest breeze knocks me over.

get back! get back!

liars, thieves, serpents get back!

don't take me one step too far

from the holy of holies.

i am being bathed in purity - bath water for the soul.

glory be.

submission is no longer a dirty word.

the sunshine makes me want to clean house.

i eat raw cookie dough after work.

beach culture inspires me to be to be dignified,

a lady in a crowd,

a scarf around her head.

submission is no longer a dirty word.

glory be, glory be.

canopied in purple

the streets now

are lined with trees

blooming purple.

(i've never seen purple trees

before i moved to California.)

the streets are canopied

in purple and

i walk underneath them

with a contradictory sense

of euphoria

and nostalgia,

a pleasant and strange mix

of dreaming and

desperately wanting to go back home.

in the dream,

i have a home.

the walls are crooked

the plaster is uneven

there are dents in the wood

from children we've never met.

in my dream, we have children,

three, daughters.

we walk down the street canopied in purple

in search of an ice cream cone because

in january it is still warm enough for

an ice cream cone as long as there is also

chocolate fudge.

because we determined long ago

to teach them to believe in magic.

that home would be first a fantasy,

and then a stability,

and then, only when necessary,

a place where we pay bills.

and even then, we pay them in the park.

and it is magic to eat ice cream on an idle tuesday,

the same idle tuesday we got married on,

when there is nothing else to celebrate.

and our children will play pretend

and live out stories and

we will add props and glitter

but never the cold hard truth

that the love letters we write in the park

to distant princes

are really just men in suits with square faces

called Insurance and Mortgage.

and they will think that their insurance is our arms

and our mortgage is our bed.