Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match,
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.
The geese
flew on,
I have never seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.
- Mary Oliver
My Father said: My Son, it is time. Time for My love for you to be among them. Time for My splendor to be heard with their ears, seen with their eyes, felt with their hands. For You it will be a difficult splendor. I said: Not My will, but Yours. Let it be to Me. The only way was to trust My Father. as angels stood aghast, I let go the privileges of deity and was swept into the desire of the Mighty One. The glory overshadowed a young girl, and I emptied Myself. I heard Him say, I will never leave you, My Son. Never. And then the darkness. As I floated in her water, Mary brooded over Me with songs. It was comforting. But then her voice stilled, her heart raced, her breathing came labored. The darkness thinned, the light grew; something was about to change. Behind it all, a voice faint but unmistakable, like whispered joy: My Son, it's time. Touching Wonder by John Blase
Time pulled eternity from the womb of a girl, and bloodstained Love spilled on the hay. Bravely done, My child. It is only just beginning. Touching Wonder by John Blase
