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