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65 is Just a Number

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There is no statute of limitations on vision.
My old eyes register a darting messenger of
God's blatant, creative joy. Watch the winged
creation hover in a web of air.
Spy a sleuthing intruder
snap-tapping its way
across the wood, tunneling
away and down the outside stairs.
No expiration (yet) for hearing,
cataloguing birdvoice and the
chipclacking of breakfast
at the feeder, the squeaking
insistence at the fountain.

Teach me to number my days, Lord,
to register the ways the wind
ruffles the tablecloth in the morning's
gentle breeze, how cool, shortened
shadows signal this sea change
of a season rippling towards
quieter times.
May I live this calendar daily
not ticking the days toward the end
but aware and alive and about your
business, not counting the days, but
living into your addition, subtraction
multiplication, division, the only
math that matters.
c. Jody Lee Collins 2017

Inventory

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Lavender linaria spikes upward, miniature clouds stalk-perched      as they reach for the sky. Hummingbirds crowd-feed      in the waning afternoon sun. Carnations, red as a fresh-cut      thumb, wave divine perfume from      ruffled taffeta on gray-green stems. Sweet peas' pungent surprise,      a salmon/marshmallow palette, celestial      bouquet a fragrance of that       far away gate in the Heavenlies. Juncos chip-clacking in rhythm,       sure-footed clutching on feeders afloat,      trapezing in the breeze. Leaves, light-transfigured day      lanterns lingering against      a cornflower sky. Voices ferried on the wind,      gleeful hollers loud as a      clap of thunder, neighborhood       jazz accompaniment      to this quieting afternoon. ///
Let the record show, no pockets
     or wallets were emptied in
     exchange for these riches, no
     bank account tapped, no debt
     incurred to pay for this view.
The ledger will detail only this:
   "Full stop, eyes open,
 …

Silence Ascends, Sunday

There's a lot one can say
     about the power of being 
     quiet (yes, I see the irony).
When listening forefronts the mind
     other senses muscle their 
     way into place (the ears above
     all) take in the not-words
     simply song, hum and tone
     in counterpoint.
No addition necessary; I am
     mute, yet the Word bursts
     alive, verse and chorus rise
     without me. The truth
     needs no help to stand.
Even when I'm not singing
     even if I'm not yes-ing it.
Sometimes you don't get an amen.

Up

"In the beginning" begs the existence of a dot, the endpoint of a line referencing time and movement, like an ant on the Golden Gate Bridge.
If there is time (now) and movement (how?) why do we shun this guess the size of a  galaxy, turn from the possibility of a God placing us just so?

I may travel by antenna, feel my way blind on small  steel and close pavement, stopping for crumbs. But just because I cannot see it does not mean there is no sky.

Spring's Verb Says

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Fireworks have nothing on me,
no man-made show can match
this explosive display.
Shocking green here,
shouting magenta there,
showy white front and center.

No gunpowder could blow
breezes like this 
to bristle trees,
to “whoosh” the wind
across the skies,
no factory fierce enough
to produce this bright beauty.

Spring’s verb says 
the growing will never stop,
but will flow from a fire 
deep in the dark,
earth-wise,
shoved to the surface,
erupting when you’re not looking.

Spring’s verb comes from nowhere
but Godwhere.

Spring’s verb says ‘get ready.’
~~~~~~~~~~ This poem was prompted by the first line in a poetry book,‘Mischief Cafe’,

Holy Landing

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"Samara," she said and the words
took flight in my hearing,
invisible windborne flora
soaring across my thoughts.
She spoke of wings, a divine
creation spinning towards
earth to plant itself like a
stubborn weed-fierce and stuck.
Imagination took root,
sending me flying home
towards Webster's--
'some-are-uh' - and there
a black and white drawing of
a seed with wings
"an indehiscent, usually 
one-seeded fruit, of the ash 
or maple."

Like that spinning tree-gift
may I fly holy words,
carrying the seed of my
Saviour to land, stuck
and stubborn, finally
splitting into silent roots
then skyward, bearing
fruit with wings.
~~~~~~~
sometimes a poem inspires a poem.
Thank you, Laurie Klein