can’t wait for what’s next.

I hear that song

from last season,

last year when I was

bent on dreaming of

a slow love from someone

who in the end was only

deceiving. Lord, the lyrics

still ring true: my heart is

struggling not to get hurt

again, not to cower in fear

again because I’m open &

vulnerable & broken & healing.

I want love in this season from

a man who also knows he’s

healing – but we are committed to

loving You and living out Your

love from now until You call us

home. I

Prompt from fmf: slow. + another of writing a poem about how you feel after listening to a song. So mine was slow by shy martin thanks to shuffling.

You are sure in the details, Lord. Thank you for always encouraging me + keeping me close + healing me like no one else through ways I’m not expecting.

& i approach you wordless

“why are the trees
so small?” he asks
his mother without
hesitancy. she continues
trimming, ”because it’s spring.”
“but why are they so small?” he
persists. “because it’s when the
new things grow.” i hear her warming
smile. he asks again & you rise in my soul;
a laugh close enough to escape out the window.
another voice questions, “why are you cutting by my room?”
“you can’t see out the window.” the mother reasons
“but they are gorgeous!” this little girl exclaims.
“i’m sure they’ll grow back, honey.” her explanation
leaves a protest quiet.

this is what happens when i listen to the outside, these kids are fearless. with repeating questions and seeing beauty where one  one wants to see growth. this is another reminder why Jesus says we must become like a child. They don’t have any shame asking things over & over. they’re bold in wanting more than a simple, or one answer. they got approaching God’s throne of grace with confidence, down. it’s what i learn i’m still. gets me every time.

Tarry With Me

I am still running.

Working hard enough

Love will finally be earned.

Did I complete tasks

asked by voices my own?

Fearful.

Impatient

Aching to go over

the river where sunflowers

grow on either bank.

In the middle, living water

flows in the house of God,

forever. Your love is strong

quiet for my busied mind.

Am I waiting right?

Should I take control again?

I don’t want the responsibility,

continuously trying my patience

with how I cannot wait.

A child counting the days

until December brings flakes

white as first snow.

My need for You to baptize

my mind, outweighs the cure

for pain only sinners know well:

denial for help, since we are

much better solo. I hate admitting

I can’t wait alone, with questions

presented again & again &

again.

I need Your hand wrapped in my right,

Your face before my brows raising worry

if You’ll come through before I decide

boarding

a southbound train to take me further

than a hidden Georgia sun nowhere

near in love as You’ve sworn on the

cross.

Promise To Be Kept

September 21st.

Summer’s last day

gracefully going quietly

under a greater calling.

Mine won’t bid stay,

though I haven’t been trying.

I’m not greater than the voice:

Time to fall away.

Let the colors change.

Blood red.

Pumpkin orange.

Corn yellow.

Coming down.

Naked trees shedding green

envious beauty.

Naked before all eyes.

Yours.

Branches position unchanged.

s t r e t c h e d

Up, out, receiving

blessed unveiling

the face of my Bridegroom.

Winter, Spring

She tried to call you. A new friend says over a distancing phone line.

I let a silence fall over us,
a familiar blanket bundling
my unresponsive heart.

Maybe my mind.

Both.

I don’t want apathy
slipping off my tongue,
a jacket I’ve let cover
these stoic bones all summer.

I’d rather have fabric cling,
than my unease toward distance
unzip this scattered heart.

It’s no secret.

I want someone
whom I can share silent speech.
Lean my head upon their shoulder.
Speak my brambles unafraid.

Seconds.
Minutes.
Hours.
Days.
Weeks.
Years.

It’s a struggle when you believe
a lie: she doesn’t love you if you don’t
talk everyday.

Life gets in the way.
Dreams take sky.
You are far away.

You tell Jesus.
You miss her
You love her.

You wish you understood why
you cry at thought them forgetting you.
When they haven’t.

Your thoughts are still foggy when she says, 28 times.

You can’t speak.
You’re confused.
When did they become friends?
They never met.

You manage to utter. Okay.
Hang up.

February comes to mind.
Winter’s last hurrah before spring.

Final frostbite before blood
can circulate warmth
needless heavy clothing.

She must have called to say,

Wake up, wake up!
I told I’d come back,
even winter knows I never stay away.

Promise For My Beloved

Goodbye-
a joyous moment, not
for the fainting heart,
guiltily asking to keep
one close at hand.

Memories prove longings unfold
once distance deems time to intercede.
Withering comes, heavy laden
seasonal sighing, soon shadowy hands
will cover-frigid & blinding.

Look straight, bloom comes to those
who need only be still, where patience
instills peaceful truth.