Christmas Hymn

Sung to the tune Paedia, by Johann Abraham Peter Schulz
Adapted from the Danish carol Thy Little Ones, Dear Lord, Are We
by Hans Adolf Brorson

Your creatures, all, dear Lord, are we,
And come your manger bed to see:
So kneeling in this humble stall
Let love be given to one and all.

Our humble songs this night we raise,
Our hearts in joyous wonder praise
The One Creator of our earth
Now come to us in Jesus' birth.

The wren, the jay, the hawk in flight
All join their songs in true delight
With angels brighter than the sun
Proclaiming peace to everyone.

And so the squirrel, the fox, the deer
Shall one day live without a fear
And all creation, made anew,
Shall live with glory shining through.

All praise now Bethlehem’s holy One,
God with us here, bright shining Sun,
The Light that brings us hope again,
Our highest joy, God’s great Amen.

Joseph

He stands for a moment,
Around his feet the curled shavings
Of sweet pine,
Runs his calloused hand
Along the smooth grain
Of a board which is ready
To be cut and fit
Into a table or cabinet,
Or maybe into a cradle.
He sighs
At the thought of it.
A journey lies ahead,
Long, difficult.
Not just the tiring trip down dusty roads,
But the life beyond:
This caring, this ache in his heart,
For the young wife
Full of child,
The tending of a son
Who will never have a carpenter’s hands.
He, too, is full of child,
Something struggling to be born
In him.
He looks out of the window,
Sees the sun brimming over the trees.
“Good weather, at least” he thinks,
And slings his pack over a shoulder.
This he can do,
Get them to Bethlehem.
The rest will have to come later,
The cutting and fitting
That will make him into a father.
He closes the door behind,
Steps out into the morning.

Solstice

It is just barely morning
And high up in a grandfather oak
A blackbird watches for
The sun
Maybe hoping to catch
That brightest, shining thing,
Bring it home
To its cache of treasures.
This is solstice,
The darkest day,
The turning of the year.
We breathe deeply,
Prepare to bide our time,
Wait for a softer morning.
It does not seem to us
That we are truly tiny beings,
Riding on a wet bit of cosmic rock
As it twirls around a star,
Which itself is streaking away
From a wondrous explosion
At the birth of time.
Someday this little world
Will end,
Gone in a great galactic collision
Or a burst of starfire.
But today we live
For another spring,
Look not for an ending
But a birth.
In the night
We listen for the whispers, echoes
Of the first Word,
Which is something like a song,
And in our morning
Reach as high as we can
For that brightest, shining thing
Which is treasure,
Which is life.

Shepherd

Someone must have stayed
Out in Bethlehem’s fields
While those bedazzled shepherds
High-tailed it into town
To find a manger.
Someone must have chosen
To stay on duty,
Clambering over windswept ledges
To find a bleating lamb,
Or bending under a thicket
To be midwife at a creature’s birth.
Theirs was a sad fate,
To be shepherds on the holiest night
But to have nothing to tell
Lapfuls of grandchildren
Who would ask about the shimmering glory
When the starry sky was filled
With wild wings and song,
Who would want to know what
The Savior of the world looked like,
Splayed out there on the hay.
Still, they had kept another kind of faith.
They had done their duty,
And duty, too, is a thing
That holds the world together,
Another name for love itself.
Of course, the restless sheep
Would not be grateful,
Would not care about the aching bodies,
The bone-weariness,
Of those who kept watch,
Who kept the terrors of the dark at bay.
But perhaps there was One
Who took notice, remembered,
Cherished those forgotten ones,
One who later taught a Son
What it meant to be a
Shepherd.

Afraid

They must know me after all these years,
The squirrels of this wooded hill
Who watch from their high perches
Each day at dawn
As I come bringing gifts.
Of peanuts, sunflower seeds, and corn.
Always they keep a wary watch,
Chattering from a distance
And scurrying away
When I come upon them unawares.
I still wish for a warmer greeting,
Some kinder acknowledgement
Of our long familiarity.
They are wild ones,
Their hearts and ears tuned
To the footsteps of foxes
And the high cries of hawks.
It is fear that keeps them alive,
The same barrier that distances them
From me, a good man, benevolent,
The founder of their feast.
I, too, know this thing--fear.
It stirs in me, and in us all.
It is the great darkness,
The yawning terror beneath all ills--
All anger, all resentment, all hate,
All that shadows and shames our world.
It is what prisons us in loneliness,
What holds us back from utter joy.
I read again this ancient story
Of heaven’s angels coming face to face
With a holy maiden,
Or showing themselves to shepherds one starry night.
The first word is always the same,
God’s word to us, the saving Word
To all who are frightened
Even by good and gracious news,
It is my word to my brothers and sisters
Flicking their tales overhead, waiting:
Be not afraid. Be not afraid.

Wreath

On every street lamp in town,
A fresh wreath, ribboned in red,
Proclaims something,
Though in this flat and secular time
We cannot be sure
Just what we are called to celebrate.
A car rolls by,
The driver staring fixedly ahead,
Grim-faced though he wears a Santa hat,
As if by doing so
He might stumble into joy.
Nearby a house, decked in lights,
Blinks in colored cheerfulness
As a faceless neighbor walks by, head down,
Hands pocketed against the cold,
Oblivious to the decorations.
In the church, the pink candle
Of the Advent Wreath
Is set to flame,
Sending a wisp of joy into the morning.
This, and every Christmas wreath,
Shape our imagination,
Eternal circles with no beginning, no end--
Images of the force that binds the universe,
The irresistible power that brings us back
Over and over again to love.
Joy can not be bought,
Can not be had by sheer will or determination.
It may appear in the darkest times,
Like a candle’s fire,
And even when we are most alone
Joy may come unbidden.
But it will never allow us to stay alone.
When joy appears,
It asks us to wreath the world,
To make a circle so big
That all may be gathered in
To celebrate, together, a wonder,
A holy wonder.

A Boy and a Candle

There I am--
A faded photo
On a home-made card,
A child of two or three
Blowing out a candle.
Over sixty Christmases
Have come and gone,
And in that chasm of time
The simple dreams and prayers
Of a little boy
In footed pajamas
Have changed, too.
Never could he have known
The life, the world
That was to come.
Yet somewhere deep
In this blessed and broken heart
That child still blows his candle,
This child still hopes for goodness, joy.
I am father, grandfather now,
Guarding hopes for other little ones,
Fearing for them in a world
Which will take their innocence away,
Leave them longing to be
So beautiful, so tender, so loved again.
But in this sacred journey
Where always we come as children
Back to the place where we began,
Where we travel on roads
That disappear beyond our candlelight,
We will be found by love.
We will be found by love.
We will be children of Christmas.

St. Lucia's Day

She was blinded
By the cruelty of the world,
Left sightless
In a world of dancing light,
Lost to a myriad of colors arrayed
In splendor across creation’s glory.
Yet she could still see
One face above all worlds,
Could see with heart and soul
All that could be loved.
We who are blind to beauty,
We who walk unseeing
Through a panoply of wonders
And stumble through our days
Without looking up,
Pray for such a miracle of light.
It may not be a crown of candles
That awakens us,
That tears the blinders from our eyes,
But grace that comes from pain,
Or some other holy surprise.
Tonight the heavens will blaze
With celestial fireworks,
Gemini’s meteors burning above us.
But they may be, in truth,
St. Lucia’s candles in the sky,
Calling us who walk in darkness
To see a greater light.
Like the ancient magi
Scanning the sky for guidance,
We are invited to journey
Through the world’s midnight
With stars in our eyes.

Cat

In this season
Of unexpected visitors,
A gray and white cat has come,
Lurking in the barn,
Peering through the bushes,
And, at last, waiting at the back door.
It may be a neighbor's pet,
Out for a stroll.
But I have heard that stray cats
Will go quietly from house to house
For weeks or months before they choose
That single, best place
To say, "Here I am.
This is home.
Let me in."
We are all wanderers,
Searching through our years
To find a place where we belong.
This is our Advent yearning,
The call of candle, hearth, and table,
Of arms outstretched, and laughter,
Of kindness, warmth, and rest,
Of love that welcomes most of all
The lost son, the wounded daughter,
The weary traveler at the end of the road,
The cat with no place else to go.
For a while, here,
We make a place to belong,
A lodging with our pictures on the wall,
A place to lay our head.
But like Mary, Joseph,
We are always summoned
To leave familiar dwellings,
To take some stranger road
To an unknown destination
Where there is a manger waiting,
Filled with holy light
Streaming through a crack in the wall
Of the world.
In that brightness we may see,
For a moment,
With cow and dove, donkey and cat,
Our one true home.

Annunciation

In the leaves
Around the corner of the house
A Christmas rose has bloomed,
An annual miracle
In this bleakest of times,
A sign
To be grasped and understood.
Once angels appeared,
Wings concealed,
Lest fear should overwhelm.
To Mary, the archangel came
Like a salesman at the door:
“Greetings,” he began with a bow,
“Blessed are you among women!”
This was to prepare her
For the impossible news
That would change her forever,
That would fill her
With the holiest of burdens.
I am sent lesser angels,
Humbler visitations,
More mundane burdens.
A flower blooming in the winter cold
Will do for me,
This beautiful thing out of season,
Then a quick flickering in the heart,
And, perhaps, a voice:
“Greetings! The Lord is with you.
Do not be afraid.”
I head out into the day
And look for wings.

Christmas Tree

Near the end of his days
My father would still go out,
Some mid-December day,
Into the Iowa countryside
To find a Christmas tree.
Tongue between his teeth,
He would haul it into the house,
Wrestle it into the metal stand,
And string it with colored lights—
The big ones, scratched with age—
The kind where if one goes out,
They all go out.
In those last years,
No other decorations were necessary:
No tinsel, no strands of beads,
No silvered balls that reflect the world
Like a fun-house mirror.
In the early darkness,
He would sit in his easy chair
Basking in the soft light of the tree,
As he listened to carols on the radio.
Perhaps it was enough
To help him be, for a moment,
The little boy collecting coal
Along the train tracks,
Whose Christmas was just
An orange in a stocking,
And a pair of gloves
For cold-reddened fingers,
A boy whose mother was still alive
Cooking a scrawny goose
And filling a house full of love.
That, of course,
Is the light
Which never goes out,
The evergreen thing
That makes the darkest days
Into a Christmas.

Glory

The glory shall be revealed,
A gift unribboned in gold.
Glory, for the broken-hearted,
For the hope-hobbled, dream-starved,
Song-stricken children of earth.
Glory, for the pain-ridden,
Bed-burdened, death-stalked,
Fear-fettered brothers and sisters.
Glory, for the hard-bitten,
Hate-twisted, Wonder-wounded,
Love-stolen sons and daughters.
Glory, this thing
That shines when all is lost,
The one enduring promise,
The thing God holds out to us--
Flings into the December air,
Sprinkles into our dearest dreams,
Offers to us at the cost of
Everything.
This Advent we remember
What we have almost forgotten:
That the Glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
And all flesh—
You, me, everybody—
Shall see it, together.
The mouth of the Lord has spoken.

Carol of the Grass

Sung to 'Est Ist Ein Ros' (Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming)

The long grass in the meadow
Once green in golden sun
Will fade in winter’s darkness
When summer’s flowers are done:
So all good things must die,
For every season passes,
And years go swiftly by.

God’s love goes on forever
As green as life can be,
His Word always creating
New possibility,
In darkness light shall spring,
A hope beyond our dreaming,
Redeeming everything.

Come quickly now, Lord Jesus,
And be our summer’s Sun,
Fill all our hearts with gladness,
Our true and faithful One,
Come, Dawn, and give rebirth.
Turn hearts to fragrant flower,
Bring glory to your earth.

Advent Calendar

In the countdown to Christmas,
The Advent doors peel open
One by one.
Here we find an orange or candlestick,
And maybe, tomorrow, a singing dove.
Better would be to find—
Behind some numbered door—
An answered prayer
Or Christmas miracle,
Some wholly holy gift:
Peace to heal the world,
Broken chains for all oppressed,
A cure for every dread disease.
What can a painted orange or candle serve?
Perhaps they give us this,
As we wait for greater things:
They teach us to see,
Behind the door of this new day,
Those tiny, hidden, priceless gifts:
A sparrow coming awake at dawn,
The curl of a finger around a pen,
A breath of sweet December air,
The sound of a giggle through a wall,
A song known by heart.
Love is in these things,
Making a place within us
For something—someone—awesome
To be born.

Prepare the Way

Out of season,
A yellow flower blooms
Among the dry leaves.
A crimson fire saturates
The evening sky.
An alien mass
Takes root in the brain
Of a good and faithful friend.
All around us
We seek meaning among the mysteries,
Look for portents, signs
To help us prepare for all that lies ahead
For good or ill:
A change of fortune,
An unexpected blessing or curse,
Or perhaps some awful doom
Beyond our imagining.
Long ago they came
To the fiery Baptist,
Wild and windblown,
As if his flashing eyes discerned
Some path or promise they could grasp.
We, too, seek prophets,
Sift through signs
--Silly, hopeful, mysterious—
To give us sense and sight..
Or maybe only this:
To help us glimpse the sandaled one
Who comes, who comes.

WILDERNESS

I walk through the familiar woods,
Crossing a spine of granite ledge
To the shoulder of a hill.
A hawk circles overhead,
And far below a gray finger of water
Circles out of sight.
I find comfort in this place,
Where no human voice intrudes.
It is the comfort of silence,
Sanctified by a breath of wind
And the smell of earth and rain,
Where time and life are measured
On a clock of sun and stars
And a calendar of seasons.
There is a holy voice here,
And a space to hear the voice
Of my own heart.
Here I can walk into the other wildness,
The brambled hollows of my past,
The overgrown paths littered
With regrets and disappointments,
Sorrows and fears.
This is not a journey I desire,
But it is where I must go
To prepare the way of the Lord.
The hawk cries,
And maybe there is glory
To be discovered this gray day,
A voice of comfort, even joy,
On this Advent morning.

COMING

Advent.
This new year begins
In silence,
No fireworks, no toasts,
No whoop-de-do at all.
It is the silence
That carries us
Into the whispered morning
Of a new day,
A new season.
This time will not be
All of my own making.
It will be formed
By what is coming:
The unexpected meeting,
The bent plans,
The stranger in the path.
The jays in the swamp maple chatter,
Interrupting the quiet of my waking.
They see something ahead
From their treetop perch,
And sing.


--Timothy Haut

Life

Red as blood,
a tiny thing pushes up,
through wintered earth,
seeking light, and warmth,
to turn green, a glory.
I kneel,
as if in prayer,
to marvel at this gift.
This moment is what I have,
and praise, praise
that love has made this one
amazing day,
this wondrous thing,
this life, rising
in all the immensity
of a billion, billion stars
which should sigh for sheerest joy
that this bit of green,
this living thing,
should even be.
And it will die someday,
and I and you,
and all who read these words,
and every bit of this sweet, good earth.
But something in us
will sing forever
of the life, this life,
we knew
one day in Spring.

--Timothy Haut, March 27, 2016

Wait

Wait. Wait. Wait.
Wait for Christmas or your birthday.
Wait for Spring to come.
Wait until you get out of school.
Wait for a better job.
Wait for the kids to grow up.
Wait until you feel better, or retire,
Wait until you win the lottery.
Wait for the sorrow
or the pain to go away.
Then one day you realize
that life has happened while you wait.
And sometimes, when you least expect it,
there comes a surprise.
Wait for it!

--Timothy Haut, March 26, 2016

Death

And death
should be undone.
No more the aching cry,
the empty chasm
where goodness once had been.
No shadow bearing down
upon our bright and festal days.
No lowering mist to darken
every birth and morning.
No fear that makes us
hold too hard to every
simple gift
lest it be gone forever.
And when I cry
for my own
dying self.
I do this
to undo death:
I go not to where the ashes
turn again to dirt, to dust,
but to the thorny bush
where roses grow
and life is lit,
for just a little time,
with love.

--Timothy Haut, March 25, 2016

Meal

Around the table
the voices rise and fall,
a story is told,
a litany of remembrance
is recited,
and an echo of laughter
reminds us of this goodness
that binds us.
As the candles burn on,
glowing in the ruby wine,
and the bread is broken
and the dishes passed
from one to another,
there is always a moment
when the flames flicker
as if an unseen presence
stirs the air.
It is, I know,
the one not with us,
the one who loves us still,
who has heard the laughter
and come to linger for a while,
to offer a tender blessing
on this holy
meal.

--Timothy Haut, March 24, 2016

Question

Why
is
this 
broken,
battered,
cruel,
cancerous,
terrifying,
twisted,
sorrowful,
senseless,
desperate,
dying
world
so
beautiful?

--Timothy Haut, March 23, 2016

Chains

We are shackled, held
by such sturdy chains:
the beliefs beaten into us
that bind us beyond usefulness,
strong as steel--
the chains which imprison our hearts,
rip us raw, stay us from joy,
rob us of the freedom
that our souls seek.
These rusted links last
through years, lifetimes,
fastened by an iron lock.
But here is the secret,
the liberating truth
which must be discovered
by those who would be unbound:
we each own the key.

--Timothy Haut, March 22, 2016

Bless

Each of us has a well
that reaches deep into
living water,
from which love flows.
Out of it
we draw a sweet drink,
and share it:
tenderly hold a baby
who cries to be touched,
put arms around a lonely friend,
nestle a seed into fallow soil,
knead a knotted muscle,
sing when a heart is breaking.
At that moment
a touch is a miracle,
a simple meal is a sacrament,
a smile is a benediction.
We are humble, holy creatures,
shining,
when we do ordinary things
to bless,
to bless.

--Timothy Haut, March 21, 2016

Parade

There is always
a parade.
Some are all pride and glory--
bands and flags and uniforms
with gleaming rifles in array
snaking their way through crowds,
hats raised, cheering
to the thunder of drums.
Some are processions
of tears and sorrow,
the riderless horse, the bowed heads,
the heavy silence,
always, it seems, under dark clouds
shrouding the brightest day.
But I think my parade will wind away,
off the beaten path
and everyone will be in it,
dogs and cats, too.
We'll leave our footprints in the sand,
skip stones in the water,
sing songs until dark
and pass out cupcakes by firelight
before we go home to sleep
and dream about
the great, good parade
that goes on, and on.

--Timothy Haut, March 20, 2016

Morning

Come morning,
almost before light,
my dreams slip away

into wakefulness.
Outside the window,
one bird calls, then another,
and a car rolls by, off to somewhere.
I swing the old legs out of bed,
feel the floor on bare feet,
realize that the world
is still under me.
I recognize it,
this good, familiar place,
pause for a moment to take it in:
the dog sprawled out
on his back,
the woman I love,
her face buried in a pillow,
a cat curled in the curve
of her arm.
They will sleep on, for a while.
But they are awake
in me,
bright as sun,
my morning,
my life.

--Timothy Haut, March 19, 2016

Despair

Save me
from this airless place,
bereft of any healing touch,
where all is bound
in a joyless knot
of agony and desolation.
Save me
from the other death,
where hope is gone,
where words are stubble,
where the barren waste
is broken only by the wailing
of my heart.
Save me from this despair,
from the empty echoes of my weeping.
Save me
so that I may not neglect to see
the one forgotten door
opening just a crack
somewhere at the edge
of my helplessness.

--Timothy Haut, March 18, 2016

Night

We fear the darkness,
the danger hidden in the shadows--
sense a lurking menace
keeping nocturnal vigil,
just beyond the edge of sight.
We hear the creak of the stairs,
the shrill siren in the distance,
the moaning of the wind,
or worst, a terrifying silence.
And then come the uneasy sleep,
the haunting dreams,
the aching awareness that
a final darkness awaits.
But this, too, is ours:
the moonlight on a lover's face,
the silver rainfall in a yellow streetlight,
the little bulb in the hall to guide
our sleepy steps,
the candles reflected in the wine,
the sky littered with a million stars,
the longed-for face
that lights up our dreams.
Night
is just a different kind
of light.

--Timothy Haut, March 17, 2016

Wind

The wind stirs, sings,
tosses the branches of budding maples,
carries six circling hawks
high, higher, above the hill.
I hear the call of the hanging chimes
making music behind the house,
and step into the open yard
to feel the breath of the world.
At the edge of the garden,
the old prayer flags
feel that breath,
flap wildly in a sudden gust
and send peace sailing out
into the restless evening.

--Timothy Haut, March 16, 2016

Prayer

She sat at the window
her hands held together tenderly,
a cup of offering. Speaking voicelessly
she imagined each person
she carried in her heart.
The names flew out from her,
like a hundred starlings
rising into the sky.
She saw them lift up,
sunlit, glittering,
a wave aginst the blue
seeking somewhere to land
at the end of her prayer.

--Timothy Haut, March 15, 2016

Preach

Do not preach
with many words,
but with your empty, earth-worn hands,
held out in welcome,
or in the soft wrinkles around your eyes,
smiling with kindness.
Let there be some hope
in your being,
so that even in your silence,
or helplessness,
you may be more help than you know.
Stand for goodness, and truth.
Be a safe place for children.
Sing sometimes, or a lot.
Laugh often, and be grateful.
Pray
that your life will
preach.

--Timothy Haut, March 14, 2016

Stones

High on the mountain flank
a cold mist paints sky and earth
the same icy gray.
Still, something urges us on
as we trudge wet, unyielding rocks
in search of a promised peak
from which, today,
nothing will be seen.
We would be lost altogether
but for the stone cairns
marking an unseen trail.
We ever climb for summits,
we who live in lowlands,
and we would be failed, fallen creatures,
uncertain of our steps,
robbed of even a little glimpse of glory,
except for our cairns:
the stones left
by those better climbers
who have gone before us.
"Come on, higher," they say.
"The view is beautiful.
Step well. Stay together.
You will be fine."

--Timothy Haut, March 13, 2016

Imagine

We imagine
 what might be
 and then live for it.
 We imagine
 one more hug from a son
 who is gone.
 We imagine peace,
 a world where all are welcome.
 We imagine tender things,
 rain and flowers,
 a kind word, forgiveness,
 a long restful night.
 We imagine
 because that is what we do,
 Because we are spirits, dreamers.
 We draw deep from the well
 of the heart.
 We see simple things,
 like the egret in the marsh,
 catching the morning light.
 We don't imagine eating frogs
 from the bottom of a pond.
 We imagine wings.


--Timothy Haut, March 12, 2016

Wild

We have fettered
this wild world,
shaped it to our use,
laid roads, built houses,
mined its secret stores,
circled it with our machines,
tamed it enough
that we forget to see
how terrible and beautiful
its wild weathers and creatures
can be.
But perhaps a crack of lightning
shatters the night,
or a tiny mosquito sends us running.
Or walking at dawn
on a country road,
a fox crosses our path,
stares at us for a moment,
calls to us across the mysterious border
of our mild and managed nature.
Then a thrill of recognition
may stir deep inside us,
help us to remember,
for a moment,
how beautiful
and terrible
is the wild
in us.

--Timothy Haut March 11, 2016

Drink

Here
in the backcountry
of a universe of cosmic fire,
is this blue world.
Water surges here
in vast oceans,
tumbles in tiny streams and great rivers,
waits to flow from glacial ice,
falls from a thundering sky.
And yet so many of us
have none, or little,
thirst for a cupful
to baptize a field, or a child.
And others, arid of spirit,
yearn for more of everything,
but fail in gratitude
for this simple, holy thing.
That there is water
to drink.

--Timothy Haut, March 20, 2016

Eyes

What are they saying,
these eyes?
They are looking at me.
They are looking into me,
asking me to notice:
I am here.
I am alive.
I am afraid.
I am curious.
I am ready to play.
I am hungry for love.
Don't turn your eyes away.
See my heart.
See me.

--Timothy Haut, March 9, 2016

Sit

The rocking chair collapsed
under me,
pieces of old wood strewn
in every direction,
and I, on the floor,
with kindling all around.
To sit
can be a dangerous thing.
Still, it serves us well
to find a quiet place
to be,
perhaps to watch the clouds
shift shape across the sky,
or to close your eyes
and listen to nature's morning overture
before the pause, the silence
of the busy mind, at rest.
Memories bubble up,
or whispers of ideas struggling
to be born,
or the heart's deepest prayer.
Everything else may seem
to fall apart,
even the chair,
but it is usually good
just to sit,
to listen, to wait.

--Timothy Haut, March 8, 2016

Sing

Cold fingers,
sunrise,
earth under my feet,
pussy willows blowing
as blue jays cock their heads,
sassy as springtime.
I am alive,
going home to coffee
and a warm wife.
It is good,
this day.
I should just sing,
so sassy.

--Timothy Haut, March 7, 2016

Great

We who loved him
knew he was great,
but this was not a common fact.
We heard that he once played
a mean game of tennis,
and he never forgot a face or name.
Through boyhood Depression years,
he walked the tracks
and picked up scattered coal
to help heat the house.
And he had twelve years
perfect attendance at Sunday School.
He was best at love,
the kind that makes you know
you are safe, and good.
He grew roses, and talked to them,
so that they would be lovely enough
to give away.
He was tender with babies,
and he laughed at his own jokes.
After a terrible stroke
and the death of his wife,
he hiked a long trail in the woods
and when he stood by the waterfall
at the bottom,
he shook his head with wonder
as if it all were such an amazing gift.
It was, of course.
So was he.

--Timothy Haut, March 6, 2016

Speak

Anything can speak.
Today, amid the scrubby weeds,
an old baseball mitt
tells a story.
It tells of summer dreams,
a boy drifting out in the green grass,
looking up for that white speck
against the sky,
blue as a cornflower.
There is the smack of a fist
against leather,
the echo of a cheering crowd,
the father's pat on the back,
the little flame of pride
to carry through the years.
Or it might be a remembrance
of bitter things:
of not being good enough,
of dropping the ball, the shame,
the long ride home,
the childhood gone.
Anything can speak.
You just have to listen.

--Timothy Haut, March 5, 2016

High

The sky was full of clouds
and feathers,
alive, calling
as she stood there
by the river.
Slipping out of
her heavy coat,
she felt the great wings unfurl,
and flew
as high
as her heart could take her.

--Timothy Haut, March 4, 2016

Faith

Faith
is the candle in the window,
the beads counted,
the hands clenched in prayer.
Faith
is the shovel in the ground,
the long airport goodbye,
the doctor’s best advice.
Faith
is the ring on the finger,
the good-night kiss,
the sleeping baby and the prodigal son.
Faith
is to trust what can’t be seen,
to seek a great but hidden pattern,
to risk everything on love.
Faith
is the stitching on a broken heart.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 3, 2016

Power

Today I am weary,
though I have food and shelter
and a Magic Number bed,
and love is around me.
I am helpless against all the things
beyond my changing:
the ruthless anonymity of evil,
the bluster of the self-absorbed,
the nearness of pain and death.
I wish for the power
to change it all,
and lament my smallness.
Then I walk outside
on this cold March morning
and find myrtle blossoms--
tiny, purple, hopeful--
pushing winter away.

--Timothy Haut, March 2, 2016

Secret

Secrets
can be corrosive,
old poisons that we stash away
in the lock box of the heart,
hidden where no healing air can reach,
becoming shadowed monsters
in the darkness.
But secrets
can save us, too.
Love can reach those hidden places,
grow like a seed underground,
show us the undiscovered loveliness
of our selves.
Like the birdhouse on the barn,
a mystery may wait inside us.
Today a shining eye catches light
as a small head peeks out,
waiting for the pulse of Spring.
Soon he will fly back and forth
with a bit of grass, or a dry leaf
to ready the nest
where a wondrous secret
will be born.
So we wait
for the secret
readying for a birth
in us.

--Timothy Haut, March 1, 2016

Teach

Snow-dusted,
he stepped into the yawning silence
at the front of the classroom
where students, slumped at desks,
dutifully waited,
dreaming of Saturday.
He paused,
aware of the phalanx of uninterest,
then climbed up on the desk
and sang.
The snow melted,
wetting his hair,
dripping down his face
like tears,
as this marvel unfurled.
After all these years
I don't remember what song it was,
perhaps something from Shakespeare,
or Gilbert and Sullivan.
But this remains,
this passion, this ardor
filling a man's whole being,
who would
teach
not knowledge, not history,
not formulas nor facts,
but joy.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 29, 2016

Wall

Long after some cataclysm
has wiped the world clean of old men,
and children no more laugh with glee
when spring peepers sing,
these overgrown New England hills
still will bear the signature
of the ones who struggled here
to make this rugged place a home.
The old stone walls
that crisscross the wild hills
are sign of a vision of cleared land,
of fertile fields and herds of cattle,
of barns and houses and steeples raised.
Sinewed arms and sweaty backs
piled granite slabs in imagined lines,
claiming a piece of unclaimed earth
to live where love was always hard,
to watch a son or daughter grow,
to wait as nights and winters
came and went,
and then, at last, to be buried in this earth
and consecrate it once again with hope.
Walls are the footprints
of those who dreamed--
a great and foolish dream--
that some piece of earth
could be theirs.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 28, 2016

Doubt

Doubt
the easy answers,
question half-truths,
be wary of the platitudes
of politicians and preachers.
Dig deeply for what is real,
trusting most those things
which are full of compassion,
generosity of spirit,
humility and kindness.
Be ready to change your mind,
especially when your conscience
whispers for attention.
Doubt
is the partner of wisdom.
It is the unmarked path
which leads to faith
and freedom.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 27, 2016

Fruit

These are what remain,
shriveled, small,
the last of the crabapples
left from a fruitful season.
They are winter's remnant,
the dregs that have stayed
through snow and dark,
a final feast in fasting days.
Inside, there is some sweetness,
and the hungry robins know
this goodness may suffice
until another summer comes.
These wrinkled things
will help a heart to beat,
a life grow feathers and fly--
as we may, too,
with our final fruits.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 26, 2016