Roots

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Rain heavy leaves

surviving the fall

spine fractured and severed high,

alive only in memory of a collective grace.

With  dreams of new life budding

in leaf soaked earth,

roots nurture all of life 

Mother kissed 

birthing a new haven.

Saved

IMG_1297.jpegRestless for the air outside

in the light of un-stained glass.

I count my breath to calm my spirit with

doors closing and hushed children.

Invocation then

to dreams and freedom

away from pretense and prose,

Amen.

 

September 2017/ cell phone photography
Florence, Italy

nights

_MG_0321I don’t know in the night

about corner edges and how they hurt

about who is in charge of my broken heart

breath so loud with fear

and yet no voice

tears fall fast and never seen

the space divorced from eastern light

I don’t know in the night

about me, about hope

Regarding death….

The personal threat of death looms heavy.

The air we breathe seems thick with risk. 

As a physician, I live quite cautiously – very aware of biology and consequence.

At the same time I live blindly in service to a call.

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So regarding my death,

I am aware of treasured moments and hope 

yet also the horror of being very alone in fear…

today that will be enough.

reach

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The heart grows tender only in the dark places of pain and loss

where seeds of anger die too slowly

but then reach

for the hope of rebirth

for the delicate touch of light

for a healing shower of grace and love

Everyday

building door entrance exit
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Every day breathes hope from forgotten dreams

taking for granted expected miracles of awareness.

But out the door then,

without coat or cover

on to a human paced journey of doing and stuff-

an accustomed living with exposed intentions

and brokenness, storms and tantrums,

only then to circle back where a closed door shields the heart

in prayerful submission to the chill of that day’s failed ending.

 

Rhonda

brown glass fragrance bottle beside white pearl bracelets

I chose the yellowed white pearls your hands crafted,

gifted art, 

entwined with my memory forever.

Now on the morning drive west

the pink gold sun

rises slowly behind me.

This gift speaks your goodbye to me.

Your death was from my art undone.

I am sorry.

There is more care than orders scripted or procedures done,

more than the fatigue of so much hurt.

I chose the yellowed white pearls

entwined in memory,

awakened to a daily becoming,

not fading

burning off the haze of dawn.