It may look empty, but you never know;
they may be back any minute, stingers ready.
Why do they say keep away? Do they not see
the delicate paper-like cavities that hold Your touch?
Why would you want that old dried thing?
Don’t you remember how it stings and tingles
when it’s green? It will poke you even now.
Yes, but, look at how it raises its arms in reckless abandon –
releasing life, resonating the very nature of God!
In its dying it has reproduced itself over and over again.
And who wants weeds? Commonplace. Everywhere.
No value. So many willing to toss You aside,
to walk right past without the slightest acknowledgment.
They do not see Your abundance in the night
as they gaze at the star-filled sky; do not wonder,
are not filled with awe. Ordinary. Commonplace.
Delicate hues of the waning sunset, I feel Your breath;
hushed, I hear Your voice in the still of the night.
I stand abandoned, hands lifted high,
awaiting Your touch. I shiver anticipating the union.
We are joined through the connections between living and dying.