Yesterday was one of those horrors of a day…ministering to many deep hurts, and this old poem by Kathleen Norris came to mind:

History’s river

swells with corpses,

all our fine stories

come to blood and bloat –

of course it’s unbearable,

and luxury to say; “This is why

I cannot believe,”

as if hope were an attitude,

understood, faith

a thing we could choose.

As if our evil would let us go-unspeakable


in the human heart –

as if we were the measure of this world…

World, as it was,

all depth,

and void, when God

wrested lgit

out of dark – of course

I daily putthem back together,

and, asleep in their cave,

call it good; loving darkness,

death itself, my own death,

the others, what does it matter…

of course

our throats are dry from hunger,


at what tongues

cannot bear –

This world, as it is,

thirsts again to be born,

new pine cones – pale,

aglow with pollen  –

push aside

their blood-red caul;

long, waxy fingers

of embryonic leaves

spread open in the sun,

becoming oak – the maples

green already, transparent

with light –

it calls us

to love, even still,

scummy water

where dragonflies lay eggs

from which their young will rise.

Sky, earth, waters

all find their voice

and so it is, in the middle of the night

after the thunder and the wind,

after lightning storm,

comes a long cool rain…