I hear you,
muffled
by the clamor of my mind
stomping the snow off your boots.
The little cloud of steam
your breath makes
seeps through the cracks
of my door.
Where have you been –
walking to and fro in the forest
gazing into the eyes of the doe
leaving traces of your countenance
wherever you go?
You tap softly.
Why do I keep you waiting?
You bring,
tucked into your sleeve,
the bunny with a missing leg
the sparrow with a broken wing.
You wait.
I do not see the silver dagger
gleaming
like a flame in your pocket.
I am cozy in my chair
wrapped in my reverie,
lulled, at ease, and insular.
Abruptly I recall the man
coming this morning to give
an estimate for repairing my fence.
Get dressed!
I will let you in after that.
But task leads on to task
breakfast, mail, the phone.
The fence man comes and goes.
So does the sun.
Later, I think of the bird and the bunny.
Did you find a warm place
for the weak and broken ones
you carried?
In the night turning over in my sleep
I wake,
bent double and breathless,
pierced by the stab
of your two-edged sword.
I do not know when
you took it out of your pocket
or when it neatly penetrated
between joint and marrow
separating the thick sinew
of self from will.
I only know I am so sorry
here in the dark
and so slow
to learn that opening the door to Life
means the death of me.
. . . God’s word is living, active, and sharper than any two-edged sword. It penetrates to the point where it separates the soul from the spirit and the joints from the marrow. It’s able to judge the heart’s thoughts and intentions. No creature is hidden from it, but rather everything is exposed to the eyes of the one to whom we have to give an answer. Hebrews 4: 12-13 CEV
The Praying Life 
Oh, you & Richard Rohr are so in sync (this is a compliment), especially with his meditations on the diamond hardness of our souls this week. I too am wrapped in a quilt in my mom cave with the space heater keeping me warm so that I can be surrounded by windows to my yard. My yard, which is so beautiful in spring/summer with luscious greens/reds/yellows, has turned red/brown/yellow so quickly & already has lost so much of its leaves that the nakedness of winter is intruding into my cuddled-up warmth. Perhaps God’s peculiar & distinctive beauty in winter is meant to pierce my desire to stay insulated & “here” so that I mustn’t linger too long before going out to my people.
Such a hauntingly beautiful poem, Loretta. I can’t stop reading it.
Oh, thank you, artist friend!