THE TASTE OF GOD

After weeknight Little League games,
whether we won or lost, 

whether I played or not,
my mother would take me 

to Loard's Ice Cream parlor.
I would always order the same thing: 

Cherry Vanilla on a sugar cone.

Grief has me wanting 

that concentrated goodness again
that my mother made possible 

in the one simple scoop,
in the sweet juice and rind 

of the half-frozen cherries.
God was in that ice cream.

THE CONVERSATION

The child's room is now a mind. 

Only there is there room

for your voice. Only there 

may you enter 

the conversation. Still, 

you're not convinced 

you've convinced anyone 

you're worth listening to. 

Or that your side of things 

is valid and true. 

To be heard, you raise 

your voice and complicate 

the already complicated case 

you're making. And before

you know it your mind 

is a mansion 

of mirrors. And every room is 

an avalanche of sound,

a collision in the collusion

of shattering glass.

THE CATHEDRAL MOMENT

 

Even if hurting is happening

you can still go inside.

 

Enter through the portico

of pain. Once within

 

the cathedral walls

don’t pillage the space

 

with your disappointment

inhabit the sanctuary fully.

 

Let the sanctity 

surround you, absorb you.

 

Send distraction into 

the halo overhead

 

into the streaming sunbeams

into divinity’s dome

 

cooing like doves disappearing

into hidden rafters.

 

Every second 

can be the Sabbath

 

when observance dissolves

into presence.