On how to live.

Do not think it

a small thing

to be

alive

today.

Go

and

squander

it,

foolishly

if you must,

on the sun

and

the trees

and

the rain

if you

might be that

fortunate

to have

freedom

in your body

and

your mind.

But do not

curl inward

to die

long

before

the music

stops.

Live

sumptuously,

feasting

on the sound of the wind

susurrating

through the trees.

Soak

up the

rich

death of

Autumn leaves

until

you glow

with a life

lived bravely

and

it is time to

sigh

your

farewell.

But not

until.

Not until.

—On how to live.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

How to drink Water.

You must look for its

scent

on the breeze.

Be careful not to get

distracted

by things that

masquerade

as

sustenance.

And when you find it.

Drink.

Hands cupped

for

more.

Soak it up

through your skin.

Let it flow over your exhaustion

like

relief,

and

Life.

— How to drink Water.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

On being Thomas.

God

within

and

still

I look

for

wounds

where

it

is

finished.

—On being Thomas.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

I find You in the hedgerows.

There is

an ancient

love song

playing

on the breeze,

suspended

in the waters

of the oceans,

calling

from the hedgerows

on tiny wings.

Seek

Me

and

you

will

find

Me.

The way that

You

quietly

whisper

Your desire

to be found

in

cathedrals

of

green

and

salt water

and

soil.

That

I

might

stand

in wonder

and

awe

at the way

the

sparrow

is cared for.

— I find You in the hedgerows.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Becoming Mary.

And

there are times

when

I am

Martha.

Choosing

the

brief

comfort

that

zealous

labour

brings

when

broom

in

hand

I strive to

regain

desperate

control

over this

valley.

But,

there is

a time

and

a place

for everything

and

Rest

is

not

afraid

of dust

and

disorder.

And

there are

holy

feet

to be

sat at

where

these

withered bones

can be

revived.

So,

I

sit

allowing

my

tender

faith

to

unfurl

as

the

world

hurries

by.

— Becoming Mary.

What the trees teach me in September.

A blackbird sings.

Notes

tumble

clear

over

sweet sprigs of hay.

Leaves

exchange

the known

for

the unknown,

as trees

humbly

let go of life.

Trusting.

And

I am here,

a life

made of seasons.

A solitary

witness to

the earth’s

worship.

And it is

good.

— What the trees teach me in September.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Conversations with my brother (On the eve of chemotherapy).

And so the

time

has

come.

Tomorrow we

straighten

our

spines

and

cast our eyes

up

because

we know

from where

our help

comes.

And

when

the first

fiery

drops

slip into your vein,

silent

and

ruthless,

we speak

life

over every part

of

you

and

death

to that

which

came

in the night

to

steal

and

destroy.

And

I may be

far,

but I will be

near.

And

know this

you are

not alone.

You are

loved.

You are

carried.

And

tomorrow

we stand

and

we fight.

—Conversations with my brother. (On the eve of chemotherapy.)

©Liezel Graham. 2018.

{Tomorrow, my younger brother starts an intense chemotherapy regime for pancreatic cancer. I have written two other posts called ‘Conversations with my brother’ and should you wish to read the others, just search for ‘Conversations with my brother’ and they will come up.}