Here you have played -
with blocks and trains and princess gowns,
on fields and courts,
on instruments and stage.
 
Here you have learned -
to add, to read, to pray,
to write simple sentences,
to discuss complex ideas.
And to love
- God, others, yourself -
Even when it was hard.
 
Here you have been tested -
in language and the sciences,
in grit and bravery
in perseverance -
and look!
You’ve passed.
 
And now,
here you stand
- on the precipice –
too much for here
not quite ready for there.
There!
Listen!
Your dream is calling…
Go!

 All day long
giants fell
in slow steady arcs
against a cloudless sky.
One after the other,
indiscriminately.
Thunderclaps
in the name of progress.
 
Early evening
a hawk circled the sky
scanning the ruins
for what once was his.
 
At last, he came to rest
in the high branches of a dead oak
that was left unscathed,
while perfect trees lay stacked,
decimated branches
budding with wasted life.
 
Sorrow settled in every feather.
Wings heavy with grief,
his eyes still searched
for home.
 
“I’m sorry,”
I whisper helplessly to the hawk

and me,
 
Because my giant also fell.
Loss
in a slow steady arc
stretched across an ocean.
Grief
thunder-clapped
over continents.
 
Like the hawk,
I perch in my bewilderment
scanning the wasteland
longing for what once was mine.
  - ​April 20, 2020

Love moves in with me,
hangs His coat
behind my door
and kicks His shoes across the floor.
Love brings chairs and tables
unfurls a richly woven rug,
drinks steamy coffee from my mug.
Love dusts the gables,
sweeps cobwebs away,
rearranges my way.
Love grows up in me
matures, turns grey
until I resemble Him, not me
from fear,
judgment,
death
FREE!

Amanda Smith 
Written 2011
Translated 2013

1 John 4: 17-18 
God is love. When we take up permanent residence in a life of love, we live in God and God lives in us. This way, love has the run of the house, becomes at home and mature in us, so that we’re free of worry on Judgment Day—our standing in the world is identical with Christ’s.(MSG)

A late-summer hurricane rips
through east-coast woods.
Limbs torn from sockets
lie strewn across the lawn –
Fallen heroes on a battlefield.
Gaping wounds on tree bodies
breathlessly beg for help.
Old sages give up, sigh, stumble
And tumble over,
their feet undignified bare.
 
October brings unseasonable snow,
heavy and wet on orange, yellow and red.
Slight maidens in wispy party dresses
buckle under the weight of
their unsolicited winter coats.
Fleshy fall sprigs bruise, twist,
burst apart
and dangle lifeless.
 
On warmer winter days
workers with chainsaws
fell the heavily wounded.
Ancient colossi
take a last majestic bow
before perishing in the underbrush.
Unmarked stump-gravestones
testify of once proud heroes.
 
Late March exhales a frosty breath
over spring’s shy virgins,
ravaging blushing Magnolia blossoms,
leaving them humiliated,
in ruined
grey-brown rags.
 
Finally, April explodes in scarlet buds,
luminescent green, white mock pear
Overnight the underbrush fixes
a band-aid over the tree-devastation.
New life hides evidence of this
untree year.
 
But on the horizon,
voids once filled
by gracious giants
weep.
Emptiness
where once there was
 life.
 
 Amanda Smith
Written 2012
​Translated 2018