The Dawn I Expected…

This is the dawn I expected—
the first day, whole and clean,
where we emerge from the night and the silence.
And free, we inhabit the substance of time
~Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen, trans. Scott Edward Anderson “25th of April” from Wine-Dark Sea: New & Selected Poems & Translations

Here in the time between snow
and the bud of the rhododendron,
we watch the robins, look into


the gray, and narrow our view
to the patches of wild grasses
coming green. The pile of ashes


in the fireplace, haphazard sticks
on the paths and gardens, leaves
tangled in the ivy and periwinkle


lie in wait against our will. This
drawing near of renewal, of stems
and blossoms, the hesitant return


of the anarchy of mud and seed
says not yet to the blood’s crawl.
When the deer along the stream


look back at us, we know again
we have left them. We pull
a blanket over us when we sleep.


As if living in a prayer, we say
amen to the late arrival of red,
the stun of green, the muted yellow


at the end of every twig. We will
lift up our eyes unto the trees hoping
to discover a gnarled nest within


the branches’ negative space. And
we will watch for a fox sparrow
rustling in the dead leaves underneath.

~Jack Ridl “Here in the Time Between” from Practicing to Walk Like a Heron

April is an in-between time of substance:
we see the coming glory of spring and rebirth
yet winter’s mud and ice still grasps at us.

We want to crawl back under the blankets,
hoping to wake again to a brighter day.

Praying to emerge from the mud of in-between and not-yet,
we are ready to bud and blossom and wholly bloom.

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Where You Go, I Will Go: Unfinished Business

Morning of buttered toast;
of coffee, sweetened, with milk.

Out the window,
snow-spruces step from their cobwebs.
Flurry of chickadees, feeding then gone.
A single cardinal stipples an empty branch—
one maple leaf lifted back.

I turn my blessings like photographs into the light;
over my shoulder the god of Not-Yet looks on:

Not-yet-dead, not-yet-lost, not-yet-taken.
Not-yet-shattered, not-yet-sectioned,
not-yet-strewn.

Ample litany, sparing nothing I hate or love,
not-yet-silenced, not-yet-fractured; not-yet-

Not-yet-not.

I move my ear a little closer to that humming figure,
I ask him only to stay.
~Jane Hirshfield “Not Yet”
 from The Lives of the Heart.

To wait for the “not yet” is a hard sweet tension.

There is tension in knowing that something profound is happening –
today’s vernal equinox,
a brilliant sunrise,
a fading sunset,
new life growing,
but the transformation is not yet complete,
and I’m unsure when it will be.

I am still unfinished business and so is everyone else.

Soon, I will be reminded of what is yet to come.

I will know the shock of the empty tomb.
My heart will burn within me as more is revealed,
through the simple act of bread breaking.

Waiting is never easy;
it is painful to be patient,
to be unfinished,
staying open to possibility and hope.

Others don’t understand why I wait,
nor do they comprehend what I could possibly be waiting for.

I’m all-ready, not-yet-finished, but sometime soon.

This year’s Lenten theme:

…where you go I will go…
Ruth 1:16

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