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Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning



Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Father in the Mirror

I look in the mirror
at the tussled white hair
and lined face

at the body bend a bit at the shoulders
as if carrying the weight
of the pain that
rules each day
and dominates each night

through the fog
I hear his voice
his deep laughter
and see that behind his tri-focals
often lost
the blue eyes still twinkle

a little life
and mischief rest there still

and yet the great weariness
covers his being like
a shroud

and each day begins with a ritual
of moving up from a place
not of rest
but of stagnation

a ritual
built out of a resolve to make it through
one
more
day

and so my
father looks at me
through the foggy glass

he is here
in so many ways
he is
me

------------------------------
Lord this day
help me put one foot in front of the other
and break through the fog
and engage
with those who come my way

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