Infinity on Edge

I recall – at age eight – a
field full of
triangles made of
six hay bales:
three kissing the earth
two holding the centre
and one with an eye on the sky.

This field was my playground;
I a fighter plane,
those bale stooks mountains,
and my flight a
reconnaissance.

O, to be eight again.
A magical age:
two zeros on
top of each
other –
infinity
on edge.

I heaven I suspect
I will be eight for
eternity, flying
reconnaissance,
leading me
to You, where I will
know myself anew.

I Become What I See

This cloud is a
masterpiece. Wisps
of white stroking a blue
canvas, evoking

breath of mother on child’s cheek

or

slip of fish with current.

So gentle these clouds
that slowly grow
with time and travel until
one day they weep into life
or perhaps rage in violence.

From my vantage point
at tiller, I cannot but
stop breathing – for a time – as
this beauty evaporates
me. Now ascending into
this scene I become
what I see:

Your breath on my cheek

a silver streak in living water.

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At the Hearth

The blessed sleep of the just
again evades me, and so I now
sit at the hearth, holy
in its own way: a kind
of graced sanctuary.

Shadows dance lauds on walls,
while tongues of fire preach
a sound sermon:
“You are standing on holy ground!”

In this chapel, no offering is taken,
but it offers opportunity
to sing praise, if not
with raised hands then
at least with razed
certainties,
knowing that knowing
is like a flame:
illumining and dangerous
both, and then gone,
so quickly
gone…