Forest Sunlight

Sunlight dapples through tall trees to
seep into roots,
flow through veins
make leaves alive.
The forest floor:
twigs, discarded pine needles,
rotting pine cones
plant remnants left behind.
Standing as stark contrast,
little green leaves,
perfectly symmetrical
protrude from Earth
with a will of their own.
They drink in the light,
given freely.
They will grow, extend branches
catch more light
on ever expanding leaves.

Images of a minister,
eyes fixed on my being,
invitation to partake in communion.
Truth falls on my skin
the way sunlight
warms through a window
on a winter day.
I take the cup and the bread
broken just for me.
Feel the goodness
given freely.
Leave to feel sunlight on face and
squint from the brightness
just outside the doors.

Above, a branch,
long since dead,
once stretched with agony
more than fifteen feet
parallel to the Earth.
Searched
to pursue with instinct
the light that
exists.
Yet, such confusion
in a course never changed.
Never wondered why
the direction headed
just didn’t work.
Death, not welcomed,
came slowly. Poor thing.

Our world,
so caught up in buying,
chewing, spitting out,
big cars and bigger egos.
I’m right, you’re wrong.
Never wondering
how we came to this.
Why things don’t bring
lasting happiness.
No change of course
or direction.
A continuous rainy day
without the sun.
Ignoring
the instinctual knowing
of light.

A Mother's Longing

As his mother, I imagine Mary longed
to free her son from the cross.
To pull him down and feel
the entirety of his weight
draped over her body.
To look into his face and see
the little boy
he had once been;
the smiles his lips once made
just for her.
And cradling his body in her arms,
she would kiss his forehead, confessing
the depth of her sorrow.
How sorry she was for all of us
who did not understand the full meaning
of his life
and now his death.
In the tomb,
she would somberly and gratefully
wash the blood
from his body
and comb each strand
of his hair into place,
just as she had
when he was her child alone.
Then pressing her lips gently
on the wounds of his feet,
she would remember
the first steps he had taken
into her arms.
And finally,
cupping his hand
against her cheek
she would weep for him,
her son.