Can you see it from where you're standing?

Can you see it from where you're standing?

Can you see a door? A gate? A hole in the air?

Can you tell what's on the other side

of that nearing portal?

Is it the lavender fields of Provence?

Could you walk into it now, breathe it in,

hear the gracious hum of bees?

Is it a waving field of wheat closer to home;

its golden susurrus murmuring like the sea?

Are redwings darting above windrows of hay?

Are jays bluing the crystal fields of December?

Or is it a workshop with a kiln

and a clock that wants repair?

Do you smell hay

or snow

or sawdust

or book pages

 

or beeswax?

Is it a cathedral

or a classroom?

Will you walk in and lecture?

Will you pick up a hymnal and sing?

Easter Thoughts on Dying

 As Paul told the Christians
    of Corinth, "Behold,
I tell you a mystery. We

will not all sleep but

we will all be changed..."

My beloved ones 

have long been sleeping--

a hybernation of decades

since my grandfather

was last awake.

And I? I have been

the doorway

of a new generation.

My hips widened,

my face softened,

my jaw firmed.

My father fell asleep

and we have been 

changed--

my hair become a trail

of white stars,

my cheeks, the veil of time.

In time, my husband slept,

and my mother,

my dearest friends,

my hopes and

aspirations.

Until all my moments

pause on the cusp 

of midnight.

I close my eyes to dream

a dream long awaited....

And when they open

on an endless April sky,

I know you!

You, my beloved one,

who has been alseep

so long!

You woke before me

and you've been waiting.

And I know you.

Your face grinning

down at me, I have never seen.

A boy's face, unlined,

creased with laughter,

but I know you--

my father, freed from frailty,

unstructured from the strictures

of fatherhood,

free

finally to love 

without dependence

or the pall of parting,

you take my hand

and we run, a boy and girl,

into the golden wheat

ringing with the laughter

of all the children

gathered to God.