Red Christ

Clutter

Remnants of yesterday's hurry, and the day before,
called clutter fill our kitchen table where steaming coffee cups could be
and quiet conversation and meals with second helpings of memories
if we were only less successful.

Now and Then (in progress)

Now, watching light play along the edges of so many blank white restroom tiles before my eyes, I look through to see the leaves I saw dance back then, to see them sauntering to their death. Undressing trees made me pause to look and grieve and wonder at beauty that drew me in to stillness. Now I ponder where I put those words, that phrase that let the world capture me, that let me dance there and then. Then I felt its charms, the poetry of autumn, the sweetness of goodbye. Red-lit, golden treasures of the trees holding on and letting go, chanted "watch us now, now we fly, now we dance, now we burn, now we find our place in the long dream of winter." Then one of them fell on my lap.

Now I remember the offerings made in surrounding yards, the smoke I smelled encircling me, hanging in the air and creeping away slowly through tall fences, caressing bare limbs, sanctifying squirrels and crows and rakes and chatty neighbors, calling in the durge of dusk. Then there were snowflakes in the sanctuary. Now I try to recapture the line and verse, the surprise of white morning, the bright blanket of hope that touched my eyes made wide again. Now in silence waiting, I sit as I did there beside the window losing track, happily unable to count the sauntering manna seraphim, the treasures of the heavens sent down to sooth, to whisper "watch us now, now we fly, now we dance, now we melt away the pain, now we seep into the earth to cleanse the stain, now we find our place until the resurrected spring."
Then one called me out into the street, one teased and twirled refusing to fall. Then one uncounted, unnamed, unnoticed gave itself over to bring me life, the pure wet kiss of God to my lips.

Now I rest remembering. Then I spoke aware, as now, that speaking could not slow the breeze, could not restore the trees out of season, could not call back the incense, could not retrace the frozen angels whereabouts. I spoke with these same lips that do shrink dry again, and I worshiped then as now, in the rich dim glow of my study, drawing in slow deep breaths, now open as eyes traveling over heavens page, then in every place that I can be with Eternity looking through to find me -- flying, now dancing, now savoring my then, my now and all the treasures of my days, watching light play along the edges of my life.