Everyday

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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. 

 

 

Promise year: 41

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To have and to hold “will not last long”

-too messy too expectant they said

yet 41 promise years later,

we stand each whole and yet one.  

Never really over,

the gospel of love embraced.

The time together traced in the lives of too many

but especially three

with days years or moments left to bloom.

For The Record

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She did not match the data presented

in hospital speak to a crowd of learners.

It was not so much a lie

as it was a revealing – a tale.

The well and the ill are stories

told from all sides of a hospital bed

in space and time

not captured in code and computer screens.

So let the record so reflect

the hurt and the heart of

hands reaching

and healing

beyond the numbering of days.

 

 

Photography thanks to Nick Van Zanten