Put Your Hands Here

On the long drive bisecting cornfields and deer graves, a confession of nothing spiritual since Kenya. Tell me more. Somehow we both know we cannot recreate the spring of life we drank from so deeply in those highlands.

And to compound the sense of something past, I cannot ready this land, our land, in time, by myself. This earth wants to join and marry – she whispers to me about it. I hear her at night and in the early morning. She speaks while I'm at work or at the market. She calls beyond God and I feel her aching bosom leaking for connection. And yet, and yet.

Daffodils bob and twist a lemony dance while tulips delay. A smattering of hyacinth send their fragrance on night air through open windows in remembrance of the day she was born. Our spring storm. Now and always another woman of fire.

Another beginning.

A dim but ever brightening morning. You spoke peace, shared it, and now I see the light. Now I have the eyes to see.

Climbing the mountain is not nearly as important as kneeling where it rises from the soft, tender earth. Put your hands here. That is where peace grows.