The Seasons of the Soul
My soul is a wasteland…
I remember when my soul was young
I was bowered then beneath sentinel trees
and watched over by mothering stars
endless it seemed that mystical springtime
– when my soul was young.
But I played before you as a pampered babe
demanding my every want and need
I did not know the sun would sear
the tender grass and verdant reed
– not knowing the seasons of the soul.
From your barren soil
I will bring forth a vine
and from the vine a flower
and from the flower- seed.
My soul is an empty well…
I remember the deepening of the rift
come as a blessing on a day of thirst
when suddenly as from a mighty blow
the rock was struck, and water flowed.
But I played before you in the ebbing wash
and dumbly watched as the water slowed
I continued to play as the vessel drained
and did not ask where the water flowed
– not knowing the seasons f the soul.
From your dried-up spring
I will cause streams to flow
and from the streams, a river
and from. the river, a mighty flood.
My soul is a house in darkness…
I remember the coming of the light as
one accustomed to the fearsome dark
great wonder by that awesome glow
to see at last and comprehending, know.
But I continued to play before you
in selfish joy never asking how or why
I continued to play in the fading light
unmindful of the storm-tossed sky
– not knowing the seasons of the soul.
From your darkened house
I will send forth a flare
and from within the flare, light
and the light will be a sign.
My soul is a stone rejected…
I remember as a shard of broken rubble
being lifted-up for all to see, and blinded
by this stroke of great good fortune
made no recompense or finder’s fee.
And I played before you as the builder’s child
careless of my royal name. I disavowed the
warning quakes that shook the portal’s frame
my soul like a capstone broke and falling
– not knowing the seasons of the soul.
With the stones of your desolation
I will build a bridge, and from the bridge
a causeway where you and others, safe
and secure, can journey back to Me.