When it comes to this-
dark diamonds of grief glinting
in the melee of the world–
there is little left to say.
So I take my self north to more land,
and listen for its secrets.
Well of sky opens, a depth of blue
that can drown or nourish.
Earth lays its rough-edged silk
to the wound that bleeds inward.
The pond releases frog-moss-leaf breath as
heron’s wings disperse a mist of light,
glimmering blue that turns sorrow
into an iridescence.
And I come to the tree that spreads its beauty
about birds, insects, old, old dirt.
Four hundred years here, a white oak.
A giant broken, bent and lustrous,
anchored still for what may come.
She offers branches, knows the hollows I inhabit.
I sit in the sunshine waiting for God.
Her majesty sings a rhythmic hum
and the universe echoes:
tap and release, crack and spill,
sigh, shudder and bow.
I lean against her creaking strength
as even children do, bereft of nothing.
I lean into
what is left
when it comes down
to only this.
I sit in the sun with God.
7 thoughts on “Friday’s Poem: When it Comes to This”
You have spoken my grief, with words I could not find and then so carefully and tenderly set me in the comfort of the tree where in knowing nothing I know God will find me. Thank you.
I am honored you feel so. Thank you, Catherine. My condolences…
You did find much, of beauty, to say
Grateful, still, and thank you, Derrick.
Luminous, soaked with a divine serenity – in which all grief and unmooring is seen with lucidity ❤️
I thank you, Ananda. God is beyond our paltry understanding but no matter, God is.