Plowing

You harrowed my heart
like a baked-clay field
hardened by sun and weather
furrowed by unyielding blades
turned over in search
of the good fertile soil
the soil You knew
was there all along
softened and prepared
for spring planting
and--
unimaginably--
a bountiful harvest

III. Stars in the Universe

For Wes and Bailey

Here in Nashville, city lights dim the stars,

Edison’s electrical artifice

Obscuring the breathtaking grandeur

Of promises made a long time ago,

Sealed by galaxies far, far away.

Nonetheless, an unfathomable host 

Of unflinchingly faithful stars

Still testifies in silence,

If you know where to look

And how to see.

Try an Ozark hillside

On a clear winter night

When the moon has waned away

To nearly nothing

And inside a warm delivery room,

Strong and gentle hands

Comfort, uphold, protect, 

And tenderly birth into the world

A bloody, squirming, squealing miracle.

Or try the red-dust high desert

Of Navajo country, 

Where a man runs alone

From mesa to mesa, contemplating

His next idea for bending, shaping

Lifeless wood into a living, singing

Thing of beauty, 

Another weapon in the war he wages 

Against damnable darkness.

And if you still can’t see the stars

Go to an inviting space

Amid a crowd of strangers

Who feel like ancient kin

And listen to the songs of a man

Playing on a 12-string guitar

Songs of life and loveliness 

Wrested from the very maw of death.

(And be sure to have a piece 

Of sweet, tart, mouth-melting apple pie

If you can bring yourself to cut into

Its intricately adorned crust.)

Watch the stars carefully while you can,
For they all inevitably fade into obscurity...
But not forever.
Some glad morning, we'll see their glory

Born anew, as the elder stars foretold
When first they flooded light and life
Into our crooked, hurting world.

Ash Wednesday

Dead, winter-ravished Earth
Begins to thaw at last.
Sun's life-giving lips
Brush her icy cheek,
Bring her forth from the grave.

Twelve cheery robins
Congregate, famished,
In my barren front yard.
They peck at the promise
Of life within dead grass.

A distant crow croaks
His harsh message
From the western hills:
"Repent! For the Kingdom
Of Heaven is at hand."