image by Rebekah Choat
I keep communion out of doors —
a sunrise sacrament —
in attendance: just myself,
a cardinal celebrant,
a mourning dove
murmuring devotion reverent,
and out of sight, a mockingbird
singing a glad accompaniment.
~ Rebekah Choat
I’ve answered many questions, “I don’t know”:
why birds can safely perch on power lines,
what makes the sky blue and the wind to blow,
how rain can fall sometimes while the sun shines;
and many mysteries elude me still:
why some loves last and others fade away,
the intersection of desire and will,
how eyes communicate what words can’t say.
I cannot fathom how the rivers run,
nor what the gull is crying to the sea,
nor where the hours go when they are done,
nor who I am that you should care for me.
The only thing I’m certain of to tell
is: all I am is yours and it is well.
~ Rebekah Choat
image by Rebekah Choat
A bright messenger
reminds me every morning
life is sweet, sweet, sweet.
~ Rebekah Choat
image by Rebekah Choat
Dirty old alley
Pools of water left standing
by a morning rain
Placid reflections
of azure rain-washed skies
above traffic’s noise
Room to fly freely
without thought in the heavens
with clean air to breathe
Open skies mirrored
in pools left in the alley
by a morning rain.
~ Rebekah Choat
At times I hear your voice – unmistakable –
singing in a language I have never learned:
Russian, perhaps, deep and dense,
or starlit Elvish,
or liquid laughing birdsong,
and for one stabbing instant
I know all you are saying.
~ Rebekah Choat
image by Rebekah Choat
Not all clouds have silver
linings. Some of them are trimmed
in purest gold.
~ Rebekah Choat
image by Rebekah Choat
Almost imperceptibly
the light grows, swelling
the air with a sweet shining
so rich and so rare
I can scarcely breathe.
~ Rebekah Choat
How gracious the gift
of well-worn silence between
two souls — communion
deeper than speech, longer than
time, more steadfast than the earth.
~ Rebekah Choat
It’s not what you’re thinking,
this lounging late into the morning
in the recliner with the child
who is over last night’s illness,
just so tired now;
the child whose legs
are near as long as mine;
the child who stirs from drowsing
to murmur, “Mama? I love you.”
Don’t call it wasted.
Say suspended, rather, or
perhaps even hallowed.
~ Rebekah Choat
Here at nearing fifty
I don’t shock easy anymore.
I’ve seen and heard more than
you’d guess just looking at me.
I keep my composure through crisis;
hold it together when hell breaks loose.
The only thing that still unsettles me
is that sharp, sweet wave of desire
that washes over me, sometimes,
catching me at unawares.
~ Rebekah Choat
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