T

Something More

Not the old gifts
of winter and year’s end—
last night’s communion
of old wine and flat bread
is not the common meal
we seek this morning…

Tired from late hours
the butterfly of night
comes hungry for light,
finds flame, is consumed
by the morning star.

Consider winter loss.
The candle wavers with cold,
and warmth is gone, but light
remains, more precious than before.

Outside the windows in deep pools
the frozen lakes hold fish below;
even in deep cold beneath the waters,
movement of their play.

We yearn for light and play
below the frost in the dark hours
of our dreams.

Toward dawn the skin of thin ice
shatters into the spring thaw of ourselves,
blood melts into milk, milk into power.

We are the food as we feast upon air;
as God gives, we give, from overflow
or utter emptiness.

Trembling, touching, discerning
the deep deserving of each
minutest creature:  we need
only to give up our disbelief
in the gift inside ourselves