The audience of earth is moving
Every whirling atom
is craning its neck
Matter as a whole is turning
slightly, slowly, deliberately
Curling itself outward
to further catch the rays of His glory.
In all their lives,
they have never seen something like this.
Struck but once
with holiness,
they have been forever after whirling:
thousands of years
in vertigo
after the murmur of His voice

Quarks are swirling hurricanes
of nervous excitement,
agitated and joyous for the Wedding,
to hear His voice again (like the Great Before).
Space, time, and light
all in earnest
bend and undulate to His breaths and movements.

Look at the Created.
All the earth praises Him,
while we flip our minds
and spin ourselves in circles
and wonder why we do not feel
the delicate turns and curves
of His mighty, terrifying Will.

The atoms can smell God.
The light can smell God.
(They remember,
they taste the memory of Him)

From the lint
to the elephants
to the dry grey hollow
in the corner of the ceiling,
every sparkling, delicate
speck of creation
is groaning for His return.

I want my life to be that groaning;
of Nature and Loving
twisted together
and soon to be reckoned with



The trees in the backyard looked like Eden.

The old wooden fence shone bright white-grey from harsh sunlight,
while I knelt in the cool of shade,
porch lit low, with cold pebble comfort.
I sat still, ears wide open:
chirp of a few lone birds
telegraphing secret words,
one dry brown leaf scuttling by,
a vacuum pushed by some faraway housewife.

The trees in the backyard looked like Eden,
and all is lit up crisp and clear through glasses
(now free of vanity, now I am free to wear and see)

Every smooth blade of grass
is miraculous in its place,
the coo of bird and sigh of leaves up high,
moving slight and soft–
the grey rough bark calls out to me,
“Come! Come! Come and climb, dear one, little one;
climb like you did in your youth.”

And I am overwhelmed,
intoxicated by the smell of damp earth and verdant grass and the loam of the land.

How could I ever tear myself away?
I want to run back to it all,
to my soft childhood bower:
moss where I was cradled and nurtured
and fascinated daily;
ten whole minutes staring at one
little wild ant–that changed my whole world,
it altered the course of my life.

And so He meant it to be.
Didn’t You?
Yes, I see it now. Papa, You made me this way,
and fashioned the earth with a smile on Your face,

so that as a child, when the afternoon sunlight slanted low,
before the milky moonlight rinsed the earth in pearly sweetness,
I would slide open the porch door,
heart rushing fast,
and smile at all this Glory,
because You loved me, and that is why

the trees in the backyard looked like Eden.

Dark Night

When the night
folds its dark blue fingers
like ribbons weaving smoothly above me,
my breathing slows and calms
and I am covered in deepest peace
and sleep.

When the dark night
dream night
folds its fingers over me
I feel You knitting me
(me, one formerly in pieces);
You circle Hands around my ribs
and gently draw me close,
softly pull me in.
(It is only here that I feel free enough to breathe.)

There is no touch like Yours.
Your shouts are whispers,
Your fierceness is sweet.
There is a Lion within the Lamb;
yes, it was the Soft Voice that startled me.

From One Wounded to another,
You enfold gently, You sing songs in the night:
“Only Me, child. Think only on Me,
and I promise you a world you could never dream”.
For in the weaving I am waiting;
when this dizzy heart is breaking,
it’s Your face I reach out and touch.


Stopped in the hallway,
felt Your Ghost brush against my feet and graze
my shoulderblade,
smiling as You pass by, passing by.

I am in the hallway,
passing by, a life of passing by.
And this isn’t normal,
sensing supernatural,
listening for Your voice.

I rest my forehead ‘gainst the cold smooth wall;
squeeze eyes shut and sigh.
So much warm spirit strangeness welling up
from within, though
this isn’t normal,
this isn’t normal at all,
not at all.