a candle's flame burns as well as illuminates in light I wait
First Monday of Advent 2021
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First Sunday of Advent 2021
while the world hurries by in its impatient spinning in Light I wait
holding the light
finding peace hard won, oft searched for in hiding places and country roads once found its heft is light but all encompassing I resist calls to anything other than this calm closing the open gate salting threshold and anointing the lintel smudging the perimeter to hold the light
light
we wake in darkness
time and the sun creep before the solstice
shuffling in this years old worn shoes
weary and wandering from window to door
we search the horizon
for that glimmer of hope
always longing for the Light
of a quavering sun
or the Star in the East
reflections on a quiet morning
From the quiet cove,
the sound of a fish
leaping from the waters surface-
the ripples unfurl
across the reflection of clouds.
Dark green ripples
spill onto the rocky shore –
the consequence
of unseen movement
the theory of waters longing.
Light chooses its balance
and its path,
untethered
from the clouded sun,
unfurled
from the illusion of water.
of light and dreams
Waking in a landscape of dreams-
boats tethered to the sky
and waters wandering into deep green woods –
pools of light reflecting in the trees.
Bright reflections of the waters surface-
closer now,
more intimate-
spark across my bedroom,
gilding the lavender sheets
and the pale silver walls
with its watery light.
Rising water laps onto the woods edge,
spilling its deep river secrets
into the rocky ground.
Bits of debris,
detritus of felled timber,
flotsam and jetsam
of the rocky ridge,
float on the coves surface.
The give and take of high water.
The give and take
of light
and dreams.
late Sunday afternoon
Late Sunday afternoon,
that time
outside of time,
when all expectations
are suspended,
I stand in that light-
that certain light-
filled with the softness
of a pause,
time deferred,
I breathe in gold
and exhale
peace.
Buttermilk Sky
Buttermilk Sky
The bright winter sky is dappled with high clouds
The color of butter
The light and shadow play across the landscape
Light then dark
Then light
A dark shadow comes across my brow
And the grief returns to my heart
Though our lintel was marked
With lambs blood
Blessed with prayer
Adorned with mirrors
The dark angel still came
Her beauty, awful,
As she sat at our table
And the losses became uncountable
I wonder still when she will return,
Because, oh yes, she will return
Or perhaps, she is just waiting
Sitting on my porch step
Waiting for another shadow to form
My face again is in sunlight
The dappled clouds moving away from the sun
Casting shadows on the winter landscape
Bright in the buttermilk sky.
thecourseofourseasons 