Advent 2019: For What Does Winter Wait

There is a Deep Story

that comes with every Winter;

A special hope and planning

that falls with the First Snow.

For what does Winter wait?

We ask this every dinner,

We wonder each Cold Season

what secrets we could know:

In fallen blooms and rotted leaves

on all the branches’ empty trees.

When will Green return, we plead?

When will the World regrow?

The Frozen Earth maps out for us

what Summer never sees

We huddle from the Biting Cold,

listen for words windblown.

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Our bodies beg the Vivid Spring.

Our souls ask sun melt stone.

Winter is not dead, only asleep.

When will we finally awake?

A world of life repeats this,

its flowers open, birds come home,

Babies born to warmth will meet this:

Life, from dark’s tight grip, escapes.

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Birth must many meanings

for Death to be only Gate.

As Winter offers none

but Promised Warmth to contemplate,

So all Life is story;

for All Life we wait.

Sound Asleep

This part of your life is rest,

Daughter,

bookended by sunset and rise.

May you find at the end of each day,

Daughter,

You’ll be warm, asleep, closed eyes.

This pace of your life is a beat,

Daughter,

Played with thoughts and words you speak.

When at last you cast aside worry,

Daughter,

You’ll be fast asleep and at peace.

This place of your life is ocean,

Daughter,

Massive, meant to be explored.

But till next you awake, refreshed,

Daughter,

You’ll be deep asleep and restored.

The pattern of your life is song,

Daughter,

Built upon the rhythm of each day.

When you reach the rest, the quiet,

Daughter,

You will be sound asleep and safe.

Your Quiet Namesake

Arley,

May you know the quiet;

how your namesake lived alone for decades

Only to lead my little brother to the truth 

among a sea of grandchildren

Only years before her death.

There is too much story behind your names

To capture in clever words.

May you know the grace we all have heard.

The ones who went before:

May you know what we knew

and then know even more.

Once upon an ultrasound...

Arley - we saw you today.

You are small.

But you make a big impression.

While the world debates

Your implications,

You are quiet.

Cuddled.

A dormant explorer.

A friend in wait.

My daughter.

To visit you

Is to know how much knowing 

Can pass between the observer 

And the observed.

They say you can hear now.

Which one of us is the better listener?

In nine months 

I hear nine million words.

Be one of them.

Arlene Lavonne Dunn

Excited to announce Arlene "Arley" Lavonne Dunn, due April 28th. She is named after her paternal great great grandmother, Arley Jackson, and maternal great grandmother, Lavonne Berry, because her parents love and admire both very much.

A Distant Land, Close to Home

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This is a distant land.

As in

This land is full of distance.

All it's people 

Know how to be far

Not how to be close.

Even when we are close

In neighborhood 

We are far

In neighbors.

8 year anniversary

When I think of what I owe

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When I do not own my own

You are the only one alone -

Aside from the One - I know I owe.

 

My child’s vibrant laugh,

My own self-control.

My refined faith,

My beauty-filled home.

 

When I think of what I owe

You

I think of being alone:

How different it would be,

How much less,

How much unknown.

 

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You are my creditor and I am in your debt.

Today, I remember

What I could not ever

forget.

Mae's Birthday Sleepover

Happy Birthday Mae! Can’t believe you’re 7 now!!!

The Coast

Winn family vacay!

A Postmortem for Your Words

When the world finally dusts

off the covers of your journals,

it will keen:

the groaning of the ships they sail their hearts in

against the razortip whitecaps you composed.

When the planet finally wakes

up to uncover your musings,

it will teem:

the scortched-earth campaign you waged on their hearts

yet wagered they would return again,

green.


Or you could give them

a bit of a head start.


Trust me,

I know how tempting it is to belittle your work

because it is yours.

But nothing could be further from the strength

with which you have been laboring at these oars.

You are farther out here than you think,

only because you haven't had much time up on deck.

But this vessel you share passage in

has cleft a wake of wrecks.


There is home on the other side.

No purpose pretending there is no purpose.

Now write. Now dive.

Or risk pretending you thrive 

at the surface.


There is power in the one you know.

Power in the words 

he lets you have.

There may be Wrath in every syllable.

But there is Love 

in each paragraph.

Boston with the Linders

We met Ellie!

The Quiet Early Diffuse Dawn

In the quiet early diffuse dawn,

the coffee wafts, our son laughs,

and the stovetop murmers on: 

this is our process now 

for handling the morning,

for lifting shoulders from their laying long.


In the silent first before the yawn,

the eyes are rebels, 

the mind unlevel,

and our son says his banana is all gone:

this is our mechanism for managing 

the quiet early diffuse dawn.

Write.

Write.

Because to do anything else is to give up on the light

touch you have with heavy subjects.

Because to do all else is fodder for heavy subjects,

those clever cannons you compose.

Write because this was decided for you, not

because this is what you chose.

Write.

Because to pen is to pour out, 

and this place is thirsty for your thinking.

Because to give is to receive,

to spill over is the choicest mode of drinking.

Write.

Not because you are the best

but because there is no better way to become full.

Not because you need it to fund your body

but because you need it to fund your soul.

Write.

Not because it will be

the best story you have heard.

Write because it will not be your story.

Write not because you are author of -

but instead so you become

the word.