+From the Feast of All Saints, A.D. MMXVIII
She sang from where I could not hear her sing,
but I was not the one for whom she sang.
My voice now rises as it never has.
Though quaking through this valley’s tears,
my bass & tenor trembling aches for hers.
Your furnace stoked by bellows burns away
the woven distance to her absent song,
impressing in your heart the harmony
her voice had sought, although, without my own.
Does she still sing or is she out of breath?
I hear her whispers through my agonies,
though I cannot be sure that they are hers.
My breathless tremble leans as my voice
fails: a listening rest waiting for these tears.
The Invisible Hand
The Infant of Prague in his little crown
fingerpaints with his right hand
upon the orb in his left hand
his little Cross that crowns the world.
He writes in the dust of the world
the names of her accusers. Seeing,
they depart from first to last,
stones falling from their hands
a stone’s throw from her
whom he condemned not either.
By God’s invisible hand, he commands her
Go and sin no more.
On the Faulted Foundations of Cohabitation
God is not an accessory for your car’s rear view mirror,
nor is He the accessory that completes your wardrobe.
Your prayerful relationship with Him in His Church
is not the discovery that He is your missing puzzle piece,
but that you are His missing puzzle piece.
Neither is your spouse or potential spouse an accessory.
Love knows not the statement I could do better than him.
Love knows not the question Could I do better than her?
Love knows not the seeds of mistrust
sown by taking before giving,
by receiving before committing.
Sands shift impatiently.
Love waits to reveal
and to be revealed.
Build upon rock.