Expectation

It came today. I knew it would,
the tracking notice told me to expect
its Saturday arrival.

But the day took over. Food prepared
to feed the stomach as well as the soul,
if done properly.

Notes written by hand and on keys fleetingly
tapped, heartfelt and true. Calls made,
clothes laundered, little time for promises.

When it arrived cold had settled with grey
day clouds shaking flakes into air so frigid
only a powder covered the walks.

I knew it would be there when time
allowed. It would wait for me tucked
safely away where no thief could reach.

But I must follow the path, do what is
needed, finish the job. In trust I worked
to complete the day.

Wrapping my neck against the wind,
gloving my hands, my coat and hat
encircled me against the chill.

A walk to the mailbox in tranquility
of winter snow. Hurried steps anticipating
the arrival slowed, then halted.

The muffled calm, snow’s offering. A quiet
accented by glistening white. Icy breath
filling blood-warmed lungs.

One can never fully conceive in expectation.
It takes trust, patience. Stillness. You never
know what gift truly awaits your arrival.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

My pastor, Fr. Scott Jenkins at A Church of the Holy Family, and I are writing prayers for a Celtic Mass. It is a once a month mass and will be themed around Advent and Mary and Elizabeth. Expectation, conceiving, trust, and birth are words we having been exploring.

Today, a new book arrived. I didn’t have time to get to the mailbox until the evening following a very busy day. I am always amazed at how the Spirit weaves through my life.

Harlot

After sunset, as azure deepens into cobalt, I lay
myself down on a wrought iron table, a weathered

appointment to my backyard. It is a quiet wild place
with a simple narrative. Urban born coyotes, at times,

in the distance. Rabbits, always rabbits, ignored
by my dog. Once, an owl. And recently, doves. My gaze

above through undulating branches of ash catches
a clear spot, a free  peek at the universe. The afternoon

storm carried away July’s rage that christened our day,
yielding a healing baptism of breath. Cool flows over my

bare arms, down my legs, around my feet. I would prefer
to guide each button until undone, dropping my livery

into a puddle around my ankles leaving me unembellished.
But modesty, even in shapeless darkness, is pressed here

in the suburbs. A red hot star, the color of harlots, of
Magdalene misunderstood, a flashback to the burn

of midday, catches my eye with a blink. What does the
color red have to say about a soul seven times released?

Are there demons I walk with unaware, each one’s
diminution a step closer to the Sacred? Sanguine flowed

from His veins mapping a path. In my bittersweet days
I gaze into a mirror and see the Divine, leaving demons

behind. In my face and yours I caress Brilliance and in
the night sky I am remembered, exaulted in a crimson flash.