for S.

you were a delicate child, so
awake to the life and lives
that danced around you.
a dreamer with a wit
so sharp it stunned.

what night came into your world
when your father was taken
from you
so suddenly?
what hope was arrested from your heart
and where did faith fall to
from all the beauty you held?

you were a delicate child.
touched by every bloom, color,
and breath.
but none can live
untouched by death.
so fear spun each day into darkness
while hope grew frail and aged.
until you couldn't bear
the loving touch
of the world any longer.
or even the belief
that Another held all of its
glory, sharp edges,
(as well as your father)
in his arms.

You couldn't bear it.
you wrote beautifully about it
then you left it.

Sylvia Plath

"A Better Resurrection"

I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is like the falling leaf;
O Jesus, quicken me.

Reaching Out

On a precipice I am
listening to a bow
against string.
Up here,
touching rock and wind,
I am hidden
in contemplation
soaked
in gossamer air.
If only to glimpse
life again!
Far and wholly away
from ruck and wave
and question.

when i've given up on words
(which is usually
too often and
too easy)

i enter the silence. it is not always
death;
it is a spaciousness
formed by centuries of living

bearing with the earth
over times, transformations,
the history
of human feelings
and actions.

if you listen

if you get to that point that is
silent enough

you can hear it.

the word upon which all else
moves
begotten from the heart of God
and burning

through everything
for
the cosmos and you.

Let it.
and that word will hush other words

incising your heart of stone
til it become flesh,
making it
a fountain, clear and flowing forth.

Now, speak.