water pooling

water pooling, thrust-
ing to fading sky arch-
ing to apple
leaves
dripping slow-
ly to green
depths
of water pool-
ing.

Saint

Louis Tiffany and Company, "Dogwood" Design Window: 1910-1915.

“The pale flowers of the dogwood outside this window are saints. The little yellow flowers that nobody notices on the edge of that road are saints looking up into the face of God.”  Merton, Thomas, When the Trees Say Nothing: Writings on Nature

Her black eyes gaze

with pleasure.

My hand

flows slowly over her sinew, 

ears, fur; she purrs in praise 

that  life is right, 

hunger sated, 

love remains.

Looking into her eyes

I see a flame

beyond her understanding

beyond my understanding:

the spark

of the being

freely given, 

freely accepted.

Glance Down

and see how new grass

lifts green glory

to absolute blue.

Look how swarming gnats

dash in passion,

vortex of life,

swirling whirlpool

in liquid light.

The jay waits

on shadowed fence,

as jeweled hummingbirds

float

in a sea of roses,

nectar drunk,

May-mad.

A Different Wisdom

“. . . a different wisdom: distinguishing the sun from the moon, the stars from the darkness, the sea from the dry land, and the night sky from the shoulder of a hill.”  Thomas Merton

the tree must come down.

no matter that its limbs and leaves

hold the universe in sway,

and green life rages through bending wood.

it leans too close to the fence

by the west wind
brought too low.

the tree must

come

down.

Rush of Waves

rush of waves, surging

of ocean, of atmosphere;

west wind filling night

with the sound of earth

careening through canyons of

empty, endless space!

The Obscure Sense of the Presence of God

Walking down a street, sweeping a floor, washing dishes, hoeing beans, reading a book, taking a stroll in the woods-all can be enriched with contemplation and with the obscure sense of the presence of God.    Thomas Merton. The Inner Experience: Notes on Contemplation.


I see how the evening sun lights
the high grass, trees shift in the gentle wind
and small brown birds flit between
outdoor tables as young women
reach for coffee cups
drop sweet crumbs to the rough sidewalk,
to the birds.  Intent on home-work,
office-work, they never look up
to see how the sky
deepens to darker hue;
how day will fade soon
and vermillion night set fire
to the seaward hills.

The west wind will finally drive them in,
and the grateful birds will all fly away.

I see it all.

My old eyes know how this old world works,
how Your love lurks even in the weeds
that grow on the edge of the most
tended garden; hides in the cries of
the grieving mourning dove;
falls like rain in the tender,
moonless night.

We Must Be Grateful

"For all God's gifts there must be in us a response of 

thanksgiving and happiness and joy." 

Thomas Merton, Seeds of Contemplation.

***

We must be grateful

when the old ones leave.

Forsaking the March sun,

they brush off tender, white blossoms.

Past the fleeing migrations,

they exhale their final, tainted breath.

Rising from earthen bones

in deep silence, new hymns intone

of thanksgiving and joy

and home.

_________________________

Image: Stephen J. Kaltenbach, "Portrait of My Father"  Crocker Museum. Acrylic on canvas