joy

its that tiny little spark
that had not been a flame
for so many years

grief and sadness had taken their toll
and the idea of joy
could not be held in my heart

it seemed impossible
no kindling or match to strike
it into flower

the ember guttered and went cold

but somehow
this year
a new wind has come up
breathing that cold ash
into a glowing hint
of tiny flame

just enough to warm my hands

reclaim

a reclamation is needed
of the edifice, artifice
constructed, oh these many years

I tear it down and discard the rubble
I put on new clothes, new skin
burning all into ash in the solstice pyre

reclaiming from the rising sparks,
that which was always mine
the light, shining spirit, scrubbed down
sanded smooth after years of accumulation

here, I shout, here is the heart of joy
here is the barefoot soul ready to dance
here is all that I have always been
now reclaimed, now renewed

perspective

perspective of the season changes
as years pile on top of one another
like the drifts of autumn leaves
or snow along the roadside

we accumulate memory, traditions, perspectives
useful in earlier lives and times
no longer green fragrant branches
but delicate as gold tissue

hold these tenderly, lovingly
breathe in the scent of new hay
smell the wool and wood
inhale that warm perfume
frankincense and myrrh
on the tiny Babes skin
let the perspective change again

delight

with breathless wonder
December is welcomed-
this year with open arms

decorations, long stored away,
reappear under delicate tissue and tinsel,
pristine in their nostalgia

recipes, dusty with ancient flour
and memories, awaken senses
from long ago kitchens

wrapping, ribbon, old bows,
adorn newly polished relics
damasked and sewn

chalk figures purchased with pennies
gaze in adoration at the Baby
in the creased cardboard stable

this is the year of my delight-
Christmas is mine again

Second week of Advent

fearless

When an angel appears to me,
I’m pretty sure I will have questions.

I will say
What do you mean?
What are you saying?
And then I’m pretty sure
I will lose my voice
like Zechariah.
I will be left mute
until it comes to pass.

Or like Jacob,
I will wrestle my angel
until I am left with a limp
and maybe a name change
and hopefully a blessing.

But when that angel shows up
and says
Fear not,
I want to be fear-less.
I want to live my life
and fear not whatever comes.

Today, I will pray for
that
ferocity of fearlessness
and be ready to roar
Yes!
whenever that angel shows her face.

Second Sunday of Advent