JOURNAL 8/26/11 -- a Poem

This is so trite:

I'm getting older.


But not so obvious is a realization I have had lately, that this encroaching awareness isn't due so much to any laws of physics -- "Time's Arrow" or some such thing -- nor to aches and pains and words playing hide-and-seek with my tongue.

Those things are true, but truer, I am coming to realize, is this:

Sometimes I am just stunned with the utter miracle of things just as they are.

Sometimes I look at a shadow, or the curl of a vine running up and across our back door, or buds on twig, and my breath just plays hooky on me.

My eyes, sometimes, even spring slow little leaks. (Oh, OK, the beauty and majesty and miracle of the simplest things moves me to quick tears.)

If that's not a sign of age, I don't know what is -- beyond, of course, those ornery rebel words that won't come when I call them, and this blasted ticking clock that just keeps on ticking no matter how I feel about things on any given day.

It reminds me of YHWH's own astonishment, His own joy at His own creation (Psalm 104:31b). And by golly, if YHWH is ec-static (outside the divine stasis, presumably, go figure!), I'm in good company.




arc of wild shrubs

deep green caverns of shadow

tossing, and behind

immense hazy drift

of ancient trees:

so easy to forget the

parking lot

separating them

and instead dive

into green caverns,

roll around,

grasping at twigs

hugging branches,

nuzzling leaves,

green smears on skin

and scratches, all

smelling of chlorophyll

raw tart virid:

"Glory to God!

What is this thing?

This miracle just here,

just this way?

Glory Glory to God!"


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