I love poetry. Recently I have been reminded of this from a range of sources, and I am enjoying the recovery of this part of who I am.

A few weeks ago, Doug was sitting on the futon piecing together worship songs and powerpoint slides while I sat at my computer trying to find a way out of the slaughterhouse that was our Scrabulous game. I clicked over to my email and found a message from Doug waiting: “read this” was all it said. I scrolled down to find a poem written by a young woman at our church, and discovered a talent and voice I could not resist.

Anyone who has ever walked the streets of our neighborhood at this time of year knows about the purple blanket of Jacaranda flowers that covers June sidewalks. Here is a recent entry on her blog I love:

Jacarandas Bloom

On 8th Street,
where the legless and drug addicted
mumble pleading eyes
for the change in your pocket,

On Raymond Ave,
where teen shotandkilled
sparked retaliation gunfire and prayer,

we fast forward to exhale.

Arthritic fingertips of trees secrete hope:
lavender droplets of ice cream fall
carpeting the sidewalks in bubble wrap.
Our eyes waft skyward to birdsong.

The trees have not forgotten it is Spring.

But perhaps my favorite was her description of a man showing up on her bus with her stolen bike and how she bought it back from him for $20.

I am thankful for the artists I am fortunate to share life with here, and glad to know that the beautiful girl I see on Sundays has a gift like this to share with the world.

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