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Posts tagged ‘hope’

Alert for Betweens

 

Between

This line

And the next

My thoughts burst forth

Like fireworks

Shimmering against

The dark.

 

Between

This line

And the next

I may have strolled around the block

Or down the lane.

I may have stopped and chatted with a friend

Over a cup of Earl Grey tea.

 

Between

This line

And the next

A minute passes

Or an hour

Or a day or two.

 

Between

This line

And the next

A new year begins

Where

Advent whispers,

“Get ready.

Stay alert for the

Betweens.”

 

Between

This line

And the next

Pause with wonder;

Ponder with hope:

Long ago

Today

And

One Forever day

Christ comes

Offering,

Inviting

Life to the full.

 

Between

This line

And the next

Remember:

Who was

Who is

Who is to come.

 

Between

This line

And the next

Watch and wait

With me

For splendor.

 

 

 

Lane M. Arnold

December 1, 2012

 

Remnants

 

Rivulets steam and stream

Salty, hot,

Under this thick non-woven

Breathing face mask,

Meant to keep out

A million miniscule molecules

Of ash, one remnant of

That rant of fire

That leapt the canyons and dry ridges,

In one pyrocumulus moment

Then consumed, decimated,

This now catastrophed neighborhood

Where children and dogs once played

And grey rabbits nibbled, hopping beside

Twin fawns at dawn.

 

We volunteers

Shovel debris,

Shovel residue,

Shovel cinders

Of unrecognizables,

Sifting stunned,

Sifting silently,

Sifting hoping

for

Mementos of memories.

 

We sweat

Inside these white disposable Tyvek suits,

Sifting rubble,

Looking for beauty

Among ashes.

 

Courageous homeowners stop by.

Amid rivulets of their own,

Springing up from raw places,

They weep hope, the largest remnant of

That rant of fire:

“We will rebuild.”

 

 

© Lane M. Arnold

July 26, 2012

Edit Two

The final round

Of editing

Feels like

That sprint

When your lungs burn

And your legs wobble

And you can see the finish line,

But are gasping for hope and energy.

 

To undo

What took so long to do

Seems counterproductive.

 

In fact,

Such editing

Adds a patina

Of possibility

That was lost

In the plethora

Of prose.

 

Ah, Lord,

You, too,

Edit me.

You fix typos

And point out

Inconsistencies.

 

You invite me to more

By becoming less.

 

Edit away, Lord,

That I might be

A fine story

For Your glory.

 

© Lane Arnold

June 19, 2012

 

The Hope of Dirt

The shovel is my brother,

a good companion

as we play together

in the dirt…

 

and I am bigger

for hoping—

as I dig,

as I turn soil

upside down,

and a few worms, too.

 

I imagine

the tiny roots

climbing low, low, low,

while tiny shoots

climb high.

 

Sunday’s sunny.

Thursday’s rainy.

 

And, in spite of

the July fourth storm,

all red rumbling, blue bruising, and hailstone white,

the beauty

pulls through,

with small bursts of bright passion.

 

At first,

silent and small

as a hummingbird hovering,

the shoots poke up their green heads,

then, choose to linger a while.

 

My garden,

solid goodness,

feeds me in hope,

as pure as snow.

 

Lane Arnold

© June 7, 2012