The thunderstorm that is grief
rips and roars, reverberates
through the empty chamber
of a heart forever scorched
by the searing strike of loss.
A deluge from a place
I thought was dry.
After the storm —
a gentle lean
into the life
that carries on.
A Saturday Caesura poem
Snow ghosts the sky, a silent
invasion that falls lightly,
gently onto a heavy
pillowed blanket. Just lies there.
So quiet. Until I step
on it. Then it cries, crunches,
squeaks, scrunches, swishes, crackles.
Snow, it turns out, has a voice
and so much to say.
cared for foster children - two
wide-eyed brothers who ghosted
through each day. So, so quiet.
Someone stepped on their spirits
and they stopped crying. No squeaks
or squeals of laughter, voices
silenced by fear, by neglect.
It's okay to step on snow.
A Sunday Doxology
Praise God who welcomes all children
and gives grace to all their mothers.
Who knows the depth of love and pain
that both mom and child may carry
and in that knowing, offers peace.
Who knits and creates in the womb
sons and daughters to call his own.
Praise you God for your open arms.