May the bright breeze of morning rouse your heart to singing,
May the fire of the noonday warm your heart to hopefulness,
May the cooling rains of evening wash your heart to freshness,
May the enclosing arms of the earth hold you through the midnight.

Walk in paths of the winds that awaken,
Walk through the fires that burn off the scars,
Walk in the waters that cool and renew,
Stand with your feet firmly planted on earth

Until you hear the voice of the wind,
Until you breathe the essence of the fire,
Until you smell the message of the waters,
Until you feel the heartbeat of the earth,
Until you see the sun rise
within you,
within you.

Prompt for Monday:

Write a poem about a secret or a lie.  I might tell a lie about myself, or make up a secret, or tell a REAL secret, perhaps.  But you’ll never know, really, what the truth is, eh?  Care to join me?

Gratitude List:

1.  A gripping historical account of the assassination of President Lincoln told by my 12-year-old nephew.  And the way my brother explains the patterns of ancient human history.
2.  The brightness of the half-moon, and the stars, tonight.
3.  Reading Mara’s poetry–awash in the language, in the imagery, in the mystery.
4.  A cloud above the Susquehanna, shaped like an eagle with a fish in its talons.
5.  Noticing.

May we walk in Beauty!

Passel of kids


One thought on “Blessing

  1. Postsecret, March 2012

    There was very little air
    in the auditorium
    but we found a seat anyway,
    settled our cold bones
    into chairs, arranged our jackets,
    waited for the secrets.

    Frank explained the postcards,
    spoke some about the movements
    that came after.

    There were microphones
    at the edge of the warm room
    and after he spoke
    and made us cry
    and laugh
    he invited those who were brave enough
    to share a secret
    with everyone there.

    You stood, trembling, placed
    your jacket in my lap
    and stood behind the others
    until it was your turn.

    I will not tell.

    It is not for me to tell.
    It is enough to tell that you told
    that night, bolstered by courage
    you did not know you had
    and in that moment
    decided to let life
    back in.

    Nearly a year later
    fragments of your voice
    wake me every morning,
    deciding over and over
    how this day will be spoken,
    how I will try, or reply,
    how fragile the doors
    that hold back anger
    can be. They break.

    And when we break
    down, we hold each other,
    snow down our backs
    from the rush of the ride,
    deciding again and again
    to keep telling.


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