The Trouble With God
Hints—that’s all we get,
pebbles tossed into the sea
of time. We lean into the moment,
hoping it will shimmer into Presence.
Nothing dramatic like a burning bush
or some vast sea parting—
just a plunk or two you’d miss
if you weren’t already looking.
We yearn for repercussions,
the unexpected rising from a plunk.
Nature works by repetition.
Shouldn’t God work by exception?
Otherwise, how could we know
a plunk from a tap in some divine code,
a dimple on the water from a signal
that holiness has entered our reality?
Ripples prove that something’s come
and gone, telling us we’ve missed the impact.
Circles multiply, swelling to embrace us
in loops of consolation.
Witness to the art of disappearance,
in the game of there/not there,
we are left to stand alone
in a pale blue pool of mystery.
Farmers’ Market
I come as to a church
deeply rooted in the liturgy
of seasons whose trappings,
formal robes and colours change,
its sounds and smells proclaim
the year’s sacred procession.
A place of celebration from the first
red knobs of spring strawberries
to the last golden skulls
of winter squash.
The word gets around and we
troop in with sacks and baskets,
ready to poke, pinch, sniff
and bargain over fragrant mounds
of Vidalia onions.
The earliest white corn, its kernels
shimmering rows of seed pearls
set in a summer necklace.
Tomatoes clinging to their vines
like tourists clutching ziplines.
Watermelon with their pale bellies
marking an earthy resting place.
This bounty comes and goes,
a round of holy festivals,
where living things pass through,
each with its own ritual.
Daughter
Offspring of a sperm bank
a designated egg
a witless meeting by syringe
years back, an act
of fiscal desperation
his privacy guaranteed.
She stands on his doorstep
at trail’s end of a long search
grasping for words rehearsed
unsure whether the written welcome
will take flesh or fade
into some inconclusive nod.
Shared eyes, hair, skin,
resemblance undeniable.
A strange genetic mirror
holds his gaze. His tongue
stumbles on the wary words,
come in.
The Word of the Mists
Always hushed,
whispered like messages
passed down the stacks
of some abandoned library.
Mist of time
gone to mold, like paper
rotting in the dampness.
Mist from gold-flecked titles
almost unreadable,
having shed even the curvature
of ancient letters.
Mist of memory lost
between the years, pressed
like flowers drained of colour
into grey bits of what
used to be.
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