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
wandering angels congregate
amongst the wind tossed cedars
filling the branches with wings and song
gloria gloria
peace be with you this day
Prince of Peace, a name we reach out to,
we call to, yearning for peace in our turbulent times
our turbulent minds
gloria gloria
peace be with you this day
peace be with you this day
First Sunday of Advent
The path folds into itself,
an origami of leaf mold and gravel.
Its edges drift into stiff hedges of
deep dried grass,
shifting ever so slightly in the spring breeze-
fluttering like paper,
paper cranes
that fold their wings
and unfurl to fly.
Someone once folded a thousand cranes,
a symbol of peace or redemption or grace,
I forget which.
These cranes took flight
and flew with ibis and stork,
heron and egret,
until the fragile paper wings drifted slowly,
silently
into the flame,
consumed.
All that was left
was an origami of ash
for me to shovel into the garden
and work into the soil
to feed the roots
and nourish our souls,
with peace or redemption
or grace.
*** For Hiroshima Day of Remembrance, a poem written several years ago.
Will you let their voices fill your heart
with anger and fear?
Remember,
peace resides there.
Look inward
and find your place in the world.
Where there is not enough,
sow seeds of peace
and leave knowing that the harvest
will be bountiful.
Wind spills across the morning cove
bringing the scent of water and sun
thru the open window.
Declaring a truce with the world,
I reap peace.
The path folds into itself,
an origami of leaf mold and gravel.
Its edges drift into stiff hedges of
deep dried grass,
shifting ever so slightly in the spring breeze-
fluttering like paper,
paper cranes,
that fold their wings
and unfurl to fly.
Someone, once, folded a thousand cranes,
a symbol of peace or redemption or grace,
I forget which.
These cranes took flight
and flew with ibis and stork,
heron and egret,
until the fragile paper wings drifted slowly,
silently
into the flame,
consumed.
All that was left
was an origami of ash,
for me to shovel into the garden
and work into the soil
to feed the roots
and nourish our souls,
with peace or redemption
or grace.
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.
Gone are the days of restless hearts
Empty pockets and tear filled
Moonless nights
Younger faces peered
Back from those mirrors
Now wiser and grayer
Welcoming each day
With well earned knowledge
That there are fewer in store
And more precious the peace
Hard fought for and won
thecourseofourseasons 