Love’s call

to care about

Love’s call to be with

Love’s call to see and be effected by what we encounter;

that mutually transformational daily bodily dialogue we are in with one another!

Trash becoming compost becoming trees, we! Us all becoming tall in Silence.

That beautiful mutual becoming.

For love knows that people, when encountered properly, transform us.

Love’s call to care about how it is with everyone, not just us.

Love’ call to be con-joined, in confluence and caring, and becoming.

Love’s call is clear. A clarion Voice. Stellar and particular. A clearing in the forest. But do we have an open ear. Is the clamor too loud to bare.

Can we hear, love’s calling, that seeding sonance, in the midst of this cacophony, this clamor for attention; for

sometimes she whispers rather than yells, especially in trauma,

until that’s all we hear is the voice, the intonations of Love,

the cadences of being in the Beloved-the dearly loved us, eventually become.

And the sentimental words have to come alive again regardless.

And, we together, enter in again

to Love’s calling. The caress of her voice. The contouring of that voice.

Less a bird, than light, or, maybe, how the sea itself speaks at night, when no one is listening. That unheard silence.

Yet, when deaf, the volume actually goes down, until we tune it in again, and

 seek the inner tone of hearing. The ashes at the foot of fallen towers, or bullets still in the ground, both maybe echo. Or better yet, the whale’s song beneath us maybe (the ancient murmuring of lumbering souls), the healing

through groaning—what the earth is already doing, and what’s churning in us all

until we become the sons and daughters of God.

And we will to join in eventually-like a chorus of reluctant participants, for we are shocked by the melody of kindness, care, relentless graciousness towards us, despite ourselves.

Or falling leaves in winter snow (something as basic as the older seasons), turned to scripted paper with healing for nations. Something which crunches in silence, turning  to colors in mid air, declaring itself in humility. Or maybe a girl’s hand in sunset light, leaned particularly open, exposed, waiting to be held.

Or, somewhere hot steam is rising from rock on stone and bone and skin, and we are brother and sisters again—in starlight wonder, she speaks also like that—in sparkles and glisten, glimmer and our listening.

There are so many ways we can hear love.

Sometimes she whispers, sometimes she yells

for, the same Voice has many volumes but One Tone, applied everywhere.

The tone itself is Love, and we hunt for that tone in our hearts

and the hearts of one another—the good soil is where love is planted.

And I hear Love calling us all, constantly to come

home, be ourselves and bless be patient with one another as we become who we are meant to be and somehow already are in Love-

Love’s stars in perfectly set constellations of this Other Glory

Love’s poem keeps pronouncing itself through us.

And a love poem is the thing to be at the end.