Fronded

Have you seen a fern in spring?
Involuted like a snail shell,
Beginning to unwind.

The frond unfurls,
The tiny green button uncurls.
Ah! a large leaf.

Have you seen a person in pain?
Involuted like an unborn babe,
Curled and constricted,

Vital organs protected.
There comes a day, though, where
The fetal position relaxes, and

Slowly the person reveals
What has always been there,
Just waiting for spring.

Centered

There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God.

It is a time of death.
A time of change.
A time of inchoate thoughts.
A time of spiritual upwelling.

I arrived at my friend’s feeling
Eviscerated—
Feeling both disemboweled and
Deprived of my essence.

We prayed and ate
And spoke of God and writing,
Of unending paperwork and
Rest.

I left, centered.

Yet Living

When the fire alarm went off at 2:30 in the morning,
Only a short time after I had fallen asleep,
I stumbled to the step ladder and did what I could.

Fire alarms are now hard-wired into the house.
I couldn’t turn the alarm to release the battery,
But I could pull it down and unwire it.
So I pulled off the electrical caps, all three,
And somehow wrestled apart the wires,
All the while, watching the two boys
Sleeping in my bed, hoping they would stay that way.

Finally, finally the blasted device was down.
I walked it out to the car where it could beep
All night, all by itself.

When Phil came home, he went to put it back in place,
But first used his voltmeter to see if the wires were hot.
They were.

Had I considered turning off the breaker before
Undoing all those wires?
Not once.
It was 2:30am!

I suspect I wouldn’t have considered it even in the day.

In all seriousness: Phil isn’t sure how I am not dead.

My blithesome ignorance terrifies me,
Even as my miraculous survival amazes me.

Thanks be to God.

Torture by Children

I believe children are a blessing.

But every once in a while,
I am tired to the point of pain,
And when one wakes me

Because he needs a hotdog or a hug

Or for no discernable reason

I have a moment of desperate wishing
That I was alone
And could sleep in peace.

My Processing Is Stuck

Phil flew home.
An hour later I left
For one who had gone home
Permanently.

Caleb cried all morning.
After I got home,
He cried all night.
I’m his mom, and I am here.

How does one process
A mom who will not come home again?

Going Home

The end was coming—
Such was apparent.

But constant vigil for weeks
Is wearing, and so
The seven children had finally
Scattered
On that beautiful Saturday,
Only to be summoned back
By a father, in tears.

Clothes quickly packed, drive down,
Through a glorious sunset.

Had they stopped for gas,
They would have missed it.

One in the room with her mother
For the final breaths.
And then peace.

Peace for the mom.

Not yet for the rest.

Tell Him Hey for Me

Atticus confronts the mob he expected,
Afraid when his daughter, son, friend arrive.
Scout recognizes a father of a classmate,
Greets him, speaks of any common interest,
Asks him to tell his son hey for her.

This simple speech, unafraid, innocent,
Disarms the mob
As they re-enter their shared
Community,
Humanity.