With God in the Goat Pen

On this frozen Sunday morning,
I communed
with Aidan,
and Caedmon,
and Ninian,
not the saints of ancient Ireland and Scotland,
but my goats,
who like their namesakes,
also arise before
dawn
and set themselves to
their daily
even
in the harshness of January.

And why not? 
God is present
in their
bright eyes
and nuzzling muzzles, 
in their soft greetings
and the expectant gaze
that invites,
and expects,
my response.

Amid the simple practices,
carrying water and replenishing hay, 
scooping droppings
and filling feeders,
these most mundane,
most holy,
of tasks,
the grand God of the Universe
comes close and sits 
among us as we
attentively,
gratefully, 
joyfully,
begin our day
together.

Candles in the Darkness

So brave they seem,
each standing 
alone,
stalwart,
fending off the 
darkness
that presses in,
and the
cold.

Single flames
flickering,
moving with
the rhythm 
of those who
gather round,
needing,
longing for
the light
they cannot,
themselves, 
create.

Brave may we be,
each standing
alone
or together,
grateful,
befriending, 
welcoming the
Light
we've been given,
passing on the gift,
the warmth
bestowed
in these dark times,
and cold.

Sleeping

 

Tread softly on the sleeping ground,
where roots and rhizomes 
grow in secret,
unimpaired
beneath the frost,
where corms and pupae
snuggly rest
and wait
until the appointed
time
to wake
and stretch
upwards, 
onward,
through softening soil,
towards the
light.

Awaken gently to sleeping dreams
that linger in
your soul
as you go about 
the minutes and hours
of your days,
beckoning,
whispering 
of all that might,
at the appointed
time,
stretch
upwards, 
onward,
unbound,
towards the 
light.