Barefoot in the dirt outside our tent
in the dark, I bend back my head
and open my heart to the night.
I hope to see heaven unravel
as galaxies take up the thread
then spin, then stretch, as
vast, practiced hands
join woof with warp
until smooth folds of time become
measureless yards of
absence and substance—
endless bolts of evidence
unrolling across the sky.
Meanwhile, one by one,
after billion-year trips,
photons land without fanfare
in my eyes, in my hair,
each quantum a jewel that
graces the dirt where I stand.
Why do I love tales of space travel
when I know my heart would break
if never again could I walk beneath these clouds?
My mom, Dorothy Stenstedt, died on May 19, 2022, and we had her Celebration of Life on August 14—first a church service, then a party. Here’s what I said at the service.
I’ve received two beautiful ones in email, and I’m sharing them here. If you know of more, please send them to me. I find them helpful and comforting during this strange time.
A friend requested “I am from” poems for her birthday. This is mine.
In “The Bowl of Roses” (full text below), the poet Rilke spends eight lines painting an ugly picture. And then:
But now you know how these things are forgotten:
for here before you stands a bowl full of roses…
Thus begin sixty-four exquisite lines of instruction on how these things are forgotten.
(for Cookie the neighbor cat)
I gaze at the heavens,
searching for you, my God.
(Ps. 123:1, ICEL Psalter)
This site is full of things that interest me and that I’ve created—photos I’ve taken; a few of my short stories and poems; blog posts about this & that; info about spiritual direction and my music. I named the site “Sleep on the Hearth” in reference to one of my favorite poems, D. H. Lawrence’s “Pax”….
What can sustain us through the Winter?