Embers To Fire

The wood stove is cold upon rising, metal cold,

barely 10 degrees Fahrenheit outside

55 in the dimly lit room,

cold air echoing from the windows.  

No fire has yet been started in the stove upstairs,

but downstairs, in the laundry room—

an ash log, not fully consumed in the night,

its underbelly still glowing red. 

Winding some packing paper around cedar chips,

wielding the ax to split several slender strips

now set atop the paper, near the burning embers,

and still more wood placed upon the heap.

Soon a fire burns brightly in that large stove,

then some cedar and pine set beside the fire,

flue fully open, door ajar, to build a blaze,

split wood waiting and ready to burst aflame.

Not so upstairs, no red coals smoldering

cold metal feeling hard as death,

the night’s last log barely burned

yet lying lifeless in its ashen grave.  

No embers to kindle a new fire here,

nothing to stir up into dancing flames—

no fire, no warmth, no friendliness

to warm my outside and soul within.

What shall I do?  Half awake I must wonder—

scraps of paper, slivers of hewn cedar,

and smaller limbs from a felled pine tree—

a match, a flame, some wind, then fire.

Fire burning by my side, warming

slowly penetrating out through the chill air,

light from flames crackling, expanding metal:

and I, too, rekindled at 0400. 

Thoughts Ater Rising

Eyes first opened, covers pushed back, up in bed

Chaucer’s words sleeping all the night with open ee-ye,

so pricks them nature in their `corages,’ 

`than longen folk’ to go on `pilgirmmages’ 

from every shire’s end of ‘Engelond, 

to Caunterbury they wende’… Empty bladder.  Start the fires.

Pull on coveralls, downstairs to my calefactory,

laundry with a large wood stove, still warm,

red coals, fragments of cedar added, split wood

providing a desired-hot office for Raymonde.

Coals smoldering, fire rekindled up above

providing warmth for the living room 

temperature still falling already -10 F  -23 C

world still whirled here and so I am awaking

warm inside my quiet-friendly rectory.

It was not only cool that greeted me on rising;

the lovely humble Christmas tree luminous

standing silently in the living room, shining

brightly seen or unseen, saying nothing,

speaking silently by silence to silence.

Drinking coffee comes right to mind—wake up juice— 

Instant should suffice early building and tending fires

after letting Moses out business-like before

he finds relief atop a snow drift in the kennel yard

under a sliver moon set in frigid-black heaven-sea.

Fragments of dreams return to consciousness:

again in a monastery, this time with Sr. Marielle,

dear friend and sister in Christ, welcoming pilgrims

seeking spiritual refreshment with Benedictines

gathering them in their warmly lit calefactory.

Today January 3rd, Voegelin’s birthday,

and first day of trading for the year—

Fox Business: market futures up, green letters,

and I wonder what I might buy for my Roth-IRA,

freshly stocked with New Year’s contribution.

0320 when I first saw a clock, 

now 0426 on my Apple Watch,

sipping Taster’s Choice, jotting down these notes,

not listening to market analysts’ banter

but striving to find and build a little consciousness.

Before Mass - 02 January 2017

How prayerful can one be with television,

with snow needing to be shoveled,

with wood needing to be split,

with fires needing to be kept burning,

with a dog needing to be walked and fed?

How prayerful can one be with politics,

news, weather, sports, entertainment,

emails to be written and read,

tweets to be scanned and retweeted,

with a dog needing to go out.

And the necessities of nature,

and cleaning up and shaving,

brushing teeth, combing hair,

taking off one’s favorite coveralls, 

putting on clothes more fit for public exposure.

Looked over the readings for Mass,

have given them quick thought, 

decided on a theme to be preached,

eaten enough food to sustain me,

and sipped more coffee to be awake.

But I am not really awake, am I?

If this is wakefulness, what then is sleep?

Yes, my eyes are heavy after a busy week-end,

I feel fatigue after all the explosions the night before.

And soon I must depart for morning Mass.

Where in the noise and busyness is God?

Where in my drowsiness is clarity of thought?

Where in my passions is stillness and quiet?

Where in my heart is a longing for God—

and if not for God, for peace in his will?

If for a single moment I turn towards,

if I can will to turn towards the remembered one,

if I can allow his mind to shine into mine,

and be content with my poverty and smallness,

perhaps then the divine can use this tattered weed.

Come, holy Spirit, and fill the hearts of your faithful—

even in our faithlessness, or half-heartedness,

and warm our chilly wills and frozen fingers,

refresh us in our tiredness, and wake us up again—

You most generous giver of good gifts, come.