To Be Called Blessed

mothBy Dee Dee Risher

After forty days of desert walking
out of the clean baptism waters
of the Jordan, still he
remembered how it was:
to float, to be pushed into the cool deep blue,
to come out caressed
by the words:
Beloved. Blessed.

We live within the blessing.

So my life this day is floated on
graces which hold me up, silent and immovable,
under this domed and spun world,
my every inch of limb spread on their weight,
every strand of hair carried on them,
a system of fine roots.

My grandmother used to tell me to count them,
but too small that enumeration,
penurious, really. Let me instead swim upon them,
this endless sea of gift
that buoys me: sun and green and night shadows
and skin-touch and smile like fire;
and then there is taste of wonder;
and do not forget music and whispers at night.
Children and seeds and death each deserve their own poems,
and don’t get me started on seasons or fruit, stars and moths,
or the quiet dome of solitude.

Oh God of deserts, of rivers and journeys,
let me rest in each one
as a child rests in summer water, looking at the
broad unknown sky, the coming wind and dark,
waiting for the call
that will drift down the hill
from the lighted window
to draw us home.

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