#80

 No one blames the flower

when it fades.

Rather, we enjoy the beauty

while it lives

a fleeting,

fragile

moment.

Nuzzle the fragrance

and marvel at the tiny, well-formed petals

counting them and checking again to be sure.

Dar la luz,

we dream. We pray.

All we get,

la luz se fue.

#79

 Hostage to the coulds and shoulds

I grapple with the reality

that is,

preferring the multiverse.

#78

 quietly and gently

the Whisper rises

stronger than the waves

brighter than the fire

and more revealing than the light.

This peace,

this perfect peace,

cuts deeper than the pain

and sears with healing.

#77

 I want to grieve,

to wallow and rest in this sadness.

My soul lacks space for anything

smaller than this grief.

There isn't the room to talk about anything

and I haven't the desire to be happy, just yet.

I am looking, I am longing for those who will sit

and rest

and weep with me instead of demanding space for

their otherness.

Am I selfish?

Sure.

I am also grieving.

#76

 It's quiet, I guess-- 

The kind of background noise that blurs altogether

like a conversation on the TV in the next room over

or the steady whir of the refrigerator and the semis on the freeway

that kind of rhythm you accept that will never be

silent.

Resting here in the middle of the waves,

I am sad.

I am tired,

I am lonely,

I am angry, too.

But overall, I am deeply,

profoundly,

sad.

#75

 Did I sit idly by

as you took your last breath?

What's the scope of this

mortal wound, the breadth?

Can our schism be settled

over broken bread?

Or is fellowship

finally dead?

#74

 My favorite telling of the Gospel

was written only a few hundred years ago

in France.

A miserable journey

of judgment and redemption,

of power and forgiveness,

of rebellion and restoration.

So, I wonder, how 

the musical would play

were Monseigneur Bienvenue armed

like a pastor in my own land?

This Gospel has moved me to always

keep the garden gate open

for the fugitive,

the whore,

the sinner like me.

This Gospel gave breath to the

restoration made possible

when we see Jesus in the refugee

instead of letting a piece of paper

restrain a man to his past alone.

In my nation,

pastors approach fugitives with

firearms

instead of encouraging Jean Valjean

to take the candlesticks, as well.

I lament,

I confess,

I repent.

But I am one woman in a Church far larger.

Is it possible to even

reason with Javert?