Ber Serai

How fine you are how fine it is to see you growing in the ways He has shown us moved us how fine to know you in the ways you have shown me growing ever taller greener, reaching in the wind the wind is my Father's breath my Father's breath is change.

I can spend a day in a garden or I can spend an hour but give me the day, that I might relish the sounds of the bees, like the hum of your breath when I lean in to whisper in your ear. Let me come to know the swaying of the sunflowers in the warm August breeze like the subtle rocking of your hips with every sweet step Let me learn from the ivy how best to wrap you in my arms and in the shade of the largest trees may I find the secret to making you feel safe.

When you are half asleep and curled into the form you love the most; that moment when you first awake when the sleep first begins its hasty retreat; when your heart lilts, when it swoons and when it wilts can you hear me at these times? I am quite sure that I have heard you. I have heard you like the Sunday bells at the Methodist church on Whitlock. At times, loud and clear, soaring or weeping, rising or falling. At other times, faint. I have learned to pick out the overtones. I once thought you a song - three to five minutes of tonics and dominants. Then perhaps a Nocturne, lush and romantic as the night. But no. That is still too limiting. Who am I to say? I am a kid. But I have ears, so let me hear; song or symphony, I could spend a lifetime. Leave the melodies to the world I want to hear the harmonies. I have learned that even the dissonances can bring out the triumphs like the dark corner of a painting, or like the sky brings out the stars. Our God, the God of Bach and Beethoven Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Raphael da Urbino, Our God is an artist, his medium is life. Each of our friends is both paintbrush and canvas. Am I still too small minded? We are more than just a collection; We are more than just an art gallery for the Lord. In truth we are all one painting, one song, one living, breathing sculpture. And what a privilege, to be a part of such a work alongside Christ, himself. I have said that I can hear you; I mean to say that I can feel you I can feel your life because it is a part of mine. When I see you, I see new colors "Where did you find this beautiful hue?" "Friend, I will share it with you." At times, I can see my own brushstroke, at times, in the mirror, I see yours. You are gentler than I am! Such a subtle hand, yet, I have learned to love my bold strokes, too but we are still amateurs, painting from inside, composing between the bars. Some day we will see this masterwork from above, complete and stunning but for now, let me hear your voice singing the lullabyes of a distant land and when I awake, may I look about me with eyes wide open, and ears well-trained.

Today I loved you, as I saw the wind make your hair to flicker-flay, picking blueberries in my uncle's backyard.

Peony was brushed aside in the dark as first one and then the other crept past the outer gate and into beds of hellebore and windflower. The earth felt warm beneath them but the air was cool and still. The scents of the garden seemed to hang like fireflies, frozen in mid-flight. In between the silences, he would tell her stories of the sea, which she had yet to view, while his hand, like a spider, skulked inch upon inch upon inch to hers.

Woman, you cannot play these games for one day I will be gone, too and I will howl at the moon for you and move on. You have left the mess from your heart all over my hands like pumpkin guts and I try to grab you hard because I want to hear you scream but you are still slimy and distressed.

Christmas (I) - George Herbert

Christmas (II) - George Herbert

W.S. Merwin

by Jaime Sabines