I went to the field of sunflowers to live deliberately.
At least that’s what I’d tell Thoreau.
But really, I went to capture the bent and spindly yellow necks arching in unison towards the sun rising up and over the field, over the chaos of rapidly agin’ old roads and new ones no one can seem to find, and though I want to lend a hand to all the changin’ I can’t bear the red veins of pain running through it all.
Never mind the rhubarb or tomatoes.
Never mind the kale or bib lettuce.
Never mind the pole beans or rows of corn.
They can do their own sweet thing, ’cause see in the old days they used to tell writers to come and prophesize with pens, to keep our eyes wide, for the chance won’t come again to see what’s being planted. But I don’t got eyes for much right now. Maybe that’s not the right way but it’s the only way I know to survive the growing waters drenching my bones.
All I know for sure is what the sunflowers know,
to follow the sun.
To soak up warm Truth shining down
Follow the sun.
“Don’t get sidetracked…” Proverbs 4:27 (NLT)
The order is rapidly fadin’
And the first one now will later be last
For the times they are a-changin’
the teacher asked my middle
son what do you want to be when you grow up
and he replied in the usual fashion of one
there is a world to grow up into
where souls don’t have to flee to mountains
and days are not filled with reminders of how things must have been for Noah
And so I smiled and nodded trying
hard to believe in growing up
and peace under
darkened suns and moonless nights
I fled to my garden where mounds of hydrangea blooms cool
if only for a moment
the low grade fever of sadness spiking within me
Truth be told I’m hot and shaky and my head is filled with news flashes and the
of boxes of food and diapers–diapers!–as they land on hills
trembling from the cries of the least of these and
despite the hydrangeas my soul screams
are the Bonhoeffers and Niemöllersand
didn’t we listen to them in the first place
the bright yellow cross painted by my oldest son years ago stands steadfast beneath our river birch
and the Still Small Voice moves me like a
trumpet call and I choose
not to grow weary but to
keep watch and
Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play Now I need a place to hide away