The Gardener of our souls
tries mightily to gain our attention.
To call us forth from the tomb
into the garden.
Birdsong announcing
the constancy of each new day.
Morning colors thrown against
the palette of the sky.
The fearless night.
The eternal spring
the necessary winter
the rhizome and
its blooming.
And, oh, the weeds.
Especially the weeds.
We groan in birth.
Cherish new life.
Forget the pain, we do.
As He labors on
With each new day
giving birth to the world.
Unforgetting.
The crust of daily bread.
Remnants in a basket.
Dry bones
come back to life.
We clamor and crowd
yet do not see him
taking his leave,
across the dimming landscape
to that lonely place.
Only slightly lonelier than the Crowds
that once pushed upon him.
He was never enough for them.
Until he let his body become
The crust, the scrapes
The unleaving bread.
Each dawn sings his Sabbath song
a melody tracing the footfall
edged with dew
the trail of sandals
on their downward slope from Galilee,
to the synagogue
to embrace the Torah
to rescue its brittle edges
from the Pharisee of our wills.
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D'andre Horrell says
I love my mother, like the breeze, her will eases my soul when my ego wants to drama and rage, oh the beauty of a soul so me. So Us All.
Cathie Horrell says
Thank you.