Tuesday, March 29, 2011
when barrel-rolling in flight
heard among sitka spruce
following our path
study with intensity
Christ’s corvus corax
hand-crafted in clay
birthed in crucible of kiln
take flight heart to heart
when you came to church
perched there in the alder tree
my soul exalted
bogachiel--name of a mountain in Olympic National Park where we witnessed ravens barrel-rolling;
katanoeo--verb used by Jesus in Luke 12:24, meaning "study with intensity", to "consider" the ravens
corvus corax--Latin for Common Raven
Monday, March 21, 2011
My soul, an empty birdfeeder,
Attracts no winged thing,
Without the seed among cedar,
The forest seldom sings.
On Sabbath morn come fill anew
This empty heart of mine;
With suet cakes and seeds to woo,
The feathered life divine.
“God’s little theologians”* come
To teach my soul your story;
No anxious cares within this home,
When filled with heaven’s glory.
*Martin Luther’s affectionate term for birds
D. Robinson 3.18.11
Monday, March 14, 2011
From high above in conifers she sings,
With dual voices simultaneously heard,
The varied thrush a shy retiring bird,
Whose simple haunting song in forest rings.
For years I wondered who composed the song,
While walking in the rain among the trees;
I heard the high-pitched notes my ear to please,
Though ignorant to whom the call belonged.
We learn the names of countless feathered wings,
Their shapes and colors, food and habitat,
The chickadee, the junco and nuthatch,
Their sight and song a fleeting glory brings.
To match the thrush song to the varied thrush
A gift of orange wonder under brush.
~David Robinson, 3.3.11
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
A songbird sings into my ear,
"Awake thy soul to sing,"
Of morning light and ever near,
A sense of wondering.
What lies ahead? What lies ahead?
My heartbeat asks again,
As day awakens me from bed,
To walk out in the rain.
The mist hangs low and heavily,
Uniting sea and sky,
My heart leaps up and readily,
I yearn to learn to fly.
The eastern skies illuminate,
With lavenders and red,
The sleepy headlands as they wait,
The rising from the dead.
By David Robinson, 2.28.11