Flying

Continuing to celebrate the end of the season as the day approaches where we mark the Ascension with a poem by George Herbert, my favorite seventeenth century man.  May you find your greatest joy in flying upon the wing of His victory this day and all the days ever, my friends.

Easter Wings

                          Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
                               Though foolishly he lost the same
                                  Decaying more and more
                                      Till he became
                                         Most poor:
                                         With Thee
                                      O, let me rise
                                   As larks, harmoniously,
                                 And sing this day Thy victories:
                            Then shall the fall further flight in me.

                           My tender age in sorrow did begin:
                                And still with sickness and shame
                                  Thou didst so punish sin
                                       That I became
                                          Most thin
                                          With Thee
                                        Let me combine,
                                    And feel this day Thy victory;
                                  For if I imp my wing on Thine,
                            Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

*imp=a falconry term meaning to mend a damaged wing of a hawk by grafting to it feathers from another bird. (source: Warnke and Witherspoon)
                                        

When Your Inner Poet Goes Missing

My inner poet has gone missing.   I know she is still close by.  On occasion, she pops in through the door unannounced and joins in the conversation at the most surprising moments.  Or I'll hear her clear her throat from another room in the inner recesses of my thoughts.     She wants to speak but withdraws, shrinks back behind her well designed utilitarian cover.  There is safety in usefulness.  In ink stained hands hidden under kitchen gloves.

Perhaps the bold reappearance of Spring has made her shy.  His masterpieces mesmerize and steal the show, as they should.  But, she forgets.  She, too, is His work.

So, today I will not force, cajole, or shame her out of hiding but will let her simply be until the warmth of the Son's rays melts her fear away and gently awakens her own Spring emergence, His handiwork. 

A Prayer for Spring

The Dancer is growing into a photographer in her own right.  I captured her in a state of wonder last week.  My heart smiled large.  And wept just a little at the child she is no more.  At the woman she is fast becoming.  At her seeing the greatness in the small movements of Spring slowly stretching and yawning and wiping Winter's slumber from her eyes.

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;

And give us not to think so far away

As the uncertain harvest; keep us here

All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;

And make us happy in the happy bees,

The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird

That suddenly above the bees is heard,

The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,

And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,

The which it is reserved for God above

To sanctify to what far ends He will,

But which it only needs that we fulfill.

~Robert Frost