How She Is

It's hard to love an imperfect woman. 
how she's unpredictable for better and worse,
how she goes left
when every good reason goes right.
how she talks clumsy in front of your friends
and bothers the people waiting for the bus,
her dress wrinkled and nose wrinkled,
how she is never all that she could be (yet).
But oh, the evenings together!
how she opens her arms to you and lets you rest.
how she comforts you with words
you forgot that you forgot but needed.
And the days! how beautiful
she is when the light comes over her
just so and in her face you catch his face,
and she is sweeping along with a holy dance
and gathering the children up under her skirts in play
and collecting their laughter in a second alabaster box.
how she cheers with unrestrained volume
for every wet and resurrected sinner,
and how she feasts!
how her heart lives enlarged with hope, 
how her hands are bringing bread to the hungry,
how she sets the table for the poor
and welcomes the rich to sit with us, 
here at the bottom. We feast, we sing, we sing,
we sing, we quiet down and lean back and
look around and see our bridegroom delighted with us
and we know it is hard to love an imperfect woman,
but we thank you, O God, for loving us.


I held a baby's hand today.
I watched the snow falling.
I ate a warm tamale. 
I heard the cello played.
And at the end of the day
I rested my head in a soft place.

This is the good life.


Carried by hands still wet from washing
the bowl is now a scatter of blue glass,
the cherries are on the floor,
and I have cut my finger. 

This is what it means to be broken.

Heavy with gravity,
unable to keep hold of the gifts,
waiting to be swept up
and swept together.

"Carried." Made with Paper.

"Carried." Made with Paper.