When Life is Like Ice Skating

When God insisted on Winter
I think Jesus chimed in and
invented ice skating rinks
(or at least the ice--well, of course, the ice!)
All that whirling and twirling
jumping and spinning
going on.
Pratfalls and crashes
and grown ups and children
whizzing by and
re-upping their bodies umpty-million
Fun and risk and danger at
breakneck speed.
He's that kind o' Creator,
I'm sure.
Clearly one doesn't feel the cold
if speed and activity are maintained
but bundled up,
you also can move slowly, enjoying the view,
hands behind you resting at the back
breathing deeply the fresh, crisp air
as you glide along.
I've been skating this wintry season past,
steadied on thin blades,
hands on the edge rails,
avoiding the spills as I keep my eyes
straight ahead.
Balancing on one leg at times,
hands in the air
or doubled forward at a racing pace,
gravity and momentum
kept me going.
The cheers from the stands were a boon, 
the prize from the kindly judge at the end--
well, it was worth the cold
and the close calamities,
worth the claim on my time
and commitments--worth it all because
I knew that Spring would come.

And sure enough, Spring has come.
Song of Solomon 2:11, 12
As often as I can, which has been very seldom the last few months,
I've been practicing the discipline of just sitting outside on my deck to look and
listen to the Holy Spirit.
For some reason I thought of ice skating at that moment
(blame Lisha Epperson) and was quite certain the fun was God's kind of idea.
It was also an apt metaphor for the previous 2 1/2 months my family and I had walked through as my mother in law was slowly passing away.

Photo Ops

Ripping paper tears,
tape(d) to the back 
of yesterday, rends
asunder the frame
of today's reality.

Too bad the glue
that held the lives
in place, frame-wise,
could not extend
to the flesh and blood
going through family photos and sorrowing over the lives of people torn apart by life.  
There but for the grace of God go I.

Writing Love

The room with the birdsong flowing
through open windows
across the wind,
chattering, noisy sentinels of tall trees,
the room with the light dripping--
(soft as this morning's quilt)
lightening the walls
illuminating the bright air,
the room with silence
save for the tapping of keys--
all this, a noisy quiet
full of a world
of boundless words.