Organic

God is organic and we reflect that part of his image.
He is the vine, we are the branches.
We are like trees, planted by streams of water.
The fruits of our Spirit are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, self-control.
He is the bread of life, the living water.
His word is a seed that won't return to him void.
We are seeds planted in fertile ground that bear fruit.
His people are a vineyard that he cares for and tends lovingly.
We are sheep, he is the shepherd.
We are salt, sent to flavor the world.

Because we are organic, we grow and need specific conditions to do this; we go through seasons, experiencing life, death and life again; we are connected to each other and affect one another; and we have a creator--we do not bring life to ourselves, we do not give purpose to ourselves, but we are given life and purpose and a cycle of being by one with greater power than ourselves, the creator.

He wears it well

the sky is a garment
of silk
dark blue extending beyond sight
color softening into soft cloud patterns
fringed with the unique lacey outline of trees and mountains
He wears it well as he looks down with a smile

it is never the same twice
reflecting different facets of who he is, not what he feels
he is powerful
he is beautiful
he is unpredictable
he is huge
he is unique, colorful, vibrant, gentle
he is mysterious

grandpa goes to a wedding

it took several years of practice

a lifetime, in fact

but it was finally down to an art;

he had it down pat!

his grey head nodding

underneath a gray hat

asleep in the buffet line

where the plates were all stacked.

a comment on the youth of 2008

little mr. big man

walking around

starbucks in hand.

when i was your age

you had to reach a certain...stage

of maturity to drink that stuff.

see, caffeine is a personal choice,

one that only an adult should make,

because you have to live with the

consequences.

these days nothing is sacred at all

not coffee, not cell phones, and I wish we could draw

the line here--

but not even sex.

expression is too big

she wrote it everywhere
on her whiteboard first
appropriately
sloppily
and then intentionally onto walls
painted white
calling the words to them like giant sheets of
computer paper
floor to ceiling, they craved the syllables
the slow curve of each "C"
the violent slash of "i" and "h"
and with clear voices they called her hand
she walked dragging her fingers, dipped in
ink
charcoal-ed tips, burnt branches singed by the language they released
the door remained the last
pure canvas
a closed mouth waiting
to be opened
to sing