Ribbons

The ribbon---
Now cut;
A neat snip of black cloth
On black cloth.
It disappears
Against a background of grief.


The ribbon---
Now cut;
It used to be torn.
Rent.
A whole tapestry,
A whole life.
Ripped and frayed,
Separate from itself.
No neat edges
Or symmetry,
No patchwork grace.
Just tangled threads,
Broken strands,
Dark on darker still,
Seasoned with salt and ash.


That ribbon of black---
Now cut;
Threaded through with light
That dances on hard edges
And skims along soft folds,
Offering a pale benediction,
And a sacred comfort,
A holy silence---
In a ribbon of black
Shot through with light
And cut---
Now cut,
Now broken
And frayed
And ragged-edged,
Woven in grief and praise.

Friday Night Kitchen

Nestled
In the center
Surrounded by the sizzle
and the hiss and the
Plenty

Surrounded by voices and
Steam and flicker flames
Rising
Ascending

A prayer of thanks.

We prepared the banquet
Together
Laid the harvest in fragrant baskets there
Lingered among the sweet and
Liquid smells as the air

Settled
As the sun lowered
And the windows darkened
And the day quieted.

We lingered there
Nestled there
Around that center
Around that heart
And we rested.