mustard seed

we want an everlasting state of being, where
pizza doesn’t get stale after a few days in the fridge, where
our hearts and bodies are straight lines of balance
and an ever desired maturity.

And I am with this desire caught between wanting
fresh pizza and wanting my heart under my thumb. (This is no joke
that we are both stale).

It is dull, this heart, perhaps from being kept out too long,
perhaps from daring to hope it would not expire like
the loaf of whole wheat bread no one will eat.

and I am acutely aware of the promises our hearts
cannot keep: that they will be
straight, balanced, righteous. That they will care.

instead we are diseases of dullness, and weak enough to say
we will count the days until we’re gone into the Mercy of God
that we are ever, so deserving of.

evergreen

she tells him he is as a tree,
thinning and stripped,
closely dusted with frost.

and she came to him, mid-storm,
lifted her eyes from the ground
to see his spine against the sky, but

instead, found two ruffled birds in their nest.
perhaps unaware they should have gone
south when the leaves left their love bare.

but they, in graceful ignorance, remained
weathering wind and lack of worms.

she saw he was Tree, shivering in night stillness
and the two wrinkled birds stayed
until the light frost turned to unbearable heavy ice.
he gave to them an empty giving,

continuing to believe in his
brittle tree heart, he was an evergreen.

waiting for warmth

we are trying to read the slow slush of our hearts
in blizzards, fed with promises of warmth,
of hot lemon tea, of better
and greener days.

how is it that we will surpass a winter
such as this, cold and steel and
reinforced by weather announcements on the radio.
the shovels are out, the heaters and sweaters, the
blowdryers on windows. we are out buying warmth
with our wrapped up bodies
in salty boots and damp necks.

are we to bask in warmth
knowing that a spring may not follow? our lives
are such, wrapped in heavy or light cloth
from one day to the next, hoping for a better day
til it is our last.

we are warm tonight,
in heaters and honey tea. we will not wait for
another day, this is our salted solution.
We will not wait for warmth, but sieze it with
frostbitten hands under our old coats.

and read our hearts in soft light, inside
where there is no slush, no worry that a car will skid and
we may not see a greener day.
inside and under the faint light and slow drizzle
of the tap, we have made our warmth.