To The Cardinal That Sang As i Shoveled Snow

Dearest Winged Choir of One:

Your song has saved me --
Plucked me from a sea of gray and white,
Plunged me into the color
Of the coming of Spring.

i saw you not,
But your song saw me,
And heralded a blossoming
In my bones --
Promised that,
As you have returned,
So will my blood run again

Toward hope and healing,
Through arteries of ardor,
Flowing into the warmth
That is so mercifully
Ours.

Let us fly:
You toward the barns
And the bridges
Of our vast, frozen interior;
Me, to one more sanctified season

Of the impossible:
Green grass,
Blue hills,
Life's passion:

The blessing of breath.

--Mr. Gobley

A Fisherman's Prayer

Dear Maker of All Things Mortal:

Even as i seek sustenance
From an element
Of which i am made
But in which
i cannot dwell,

So You seek sustenance
From us, Your molecules,
Your emissaries to
Imperfect Life,

Your missives to
The Moment.

Please guide me in the ways
Of Your goodness,
So that, in being fed,
i might also feed You.

Help me to be grateful
For all that is given;
Let me spare what i do not need.

Let me extend the
Great Chain of Being,
Borrowing only a little,
Only briefly,
From Your fluid forge.

Let me live on the water
And return again to solid ground,
Where i will gratefully
Pledge to You
All that is Yours;

All molecules of being
That You have momentarily
Made mine
Will swim upstream again
To the headwaters of Your
Creation,
There to be made new.

--Mr. Gobley

Meditation on a Yellow Light

O brief beacon, goddess of transition:

Smile upon me as i speed
On my way, i know not where.

Remember to bless and to forgive,
As i promise to thank you
With a wink in my rearview mirror.

i further promise,
With my whole, hurried heart,
That next time, i will slow,
Stop,
Genuflect,
Breathe:

It is you, not those above or below,
In whom all time reposes,
By whom all grace is given,
Through whom all who mindlessly rush
Either make their appointments
Or meet their Maker.

To you i send solemn thanks,
Toward you my prayer does rush
With rapid pulse measured on dials;
A thin slice of the day is all that is granted you,
And from it, you fashion worlds.

i thank you for the small moment
That opens onto the rest of my brief life,
And leave a trail of blessings behind me,
Scattered and rustling beneath
Your
Narrow
Universe.

--Mr. Gobley

On the Joy of Being Cold

This must have been what it felt like
To fall from the stars:

i was a one-celled organism
with an ice-cream headache

a goosebump hurtling through space
soothed and smoothed
only by friction
with the atmosphere.

And now
billions of years later
a megalopolis of molecules
i walk into the heartless wind
and i laugh.

And my laughter-fog
freezes into a cloud
and the wind
punches me in the nose

an icicle begins to form on my tonsils
and my eyeballs feel like
hard-boiled eggs.

Some ancient inner atom
knows this cold as home
recognizes this astral blast

as its origin
its resting place
the reminder
of the long journey
it has traveled
and the promise of
a loving
if tomb-like
embrace --

The rest of me, however,
Is just cold.

--Mr. Gobley