A Blessing for One Who Has Nothing Left to Give

There is a blessing poured upon the head
of one who has nothing left to give.

The blessing from above the heights
oozes over the hair,

cascade-drips over the face,
the forehead glistens with it.

What is given to the one who has nothing,
who stands with empty heart, empty hands, empty voice

is a blessing of more than what can be given
to one who stands with hands
grandly occupied.

And when the one who is bereft of kindness
stands under the heights of kindness lavished,

the blessing drenches, slowly gives of itself
generous.

The anointed one drips
with the blessing given to the one who has nothing
left to give,

who has come to stand in the gift and
has learned to receive the gift

that turns all of those nothings
into something
that can begin
again.

Jenneth Graser

Photograph David Hofmann Unsplash

Waking Up

I find you under crushed weeds lining the path
of our morning rambles.

Someone got here first and strew them out of the way,
pulled up by the roots.

How many things are you pulling up by the root
to reveal the turned over loam in us?

The sun briskly challenges the mountain,
which cannot hold back the pure poured-out light

generously misting the dew amongst reeds,
all standing like champions and witnesses.

I am being attended by the chorus of rooster,
a playful enterprise of birds so unafraid.

My prayers tumble out of my mouth
into the cracks of the valley, exposing lies for lies,
truth for truth.

We can walk here and stop being fearful of
what could be lurking in every unknown future.

We can run here and feel what it is to
have the blood surge through our muscles,

reminding us that we are a body too,
a temple called into the holy of a body-made prayer.

First thing in the morning, when the sun is bursting
at its seams with enthusiasm and there is

so much breath puffing out like clouds
all over the trails, and the day is waking, waking,
waking up all over the place.

I am waking up too.

Jenneth Graser

Photography Ban Yido Unsplash