If it makes it past my heart
I’ll kill it with my hands
There’s an echo in the mountains
When the body lands
Faith, Health, and Other Musings
May our minds flourish with creation, and may our hands never deny its expression.
If it makes it past my heart
I’ll kill it with my hands
There’s an echo in the mountains
When the body lands
My nightmares
are my own;
unfelt and unseen
yet the tremors
are heard in the morn,
dull echoes
hidden in sharp alarms,
falling to sleep
waking to rise
life to day
death to night,
ending its story
as we all do
in our fatal haste to new
Sometimes,
I remember that
the radio continues to play
as a car wrecks,
and I think that’s
how we often live –
ravaged by pain,
aware of our destruction,
and, yet,
humming along.
She pulls me
gently
down a well-worn path,
littered with ferns and old letters,
and brings me to
a flowery clearing.
“This is always where they leave,”
she says,
indicating the barren field.
“Yes,” I say,
“this is it.”
“This is what?”
“This is a perfect place
to build a home.”
Breathing heavy,
I wait for light to leave the sky –
longing for your nighttime spell
a brutal, tortured tongue-tie.
You haunt me with your drawling voice
dark and yet unseen,
you disturb my foolish, failing heart
and call it Halloween.
We reject pain,
but how
that rejection
— that indominatable spirt
to thrive against loss,
creates the most
beauty!
It’s pain,
more than a priest,
that teaches you
how to pray.
We’re warned
about the dangers
of the world —
the heat of fire,
the power of water,
the shifting weight of the wind —
but the world
has never,
never,
wounded me
like the dangers
in my heart.