Pinions

If not for

the twig-nest

of our twined fingers,

 

and the threefold cord

we’ve kept

to cup

 

in prayer

long midnights—

as hope has crashed

 

and risen—

and the bright blue shells

we’ve been given

 

last to hatch

unbroken by anything

but song—

 

if not but for

the soft-feathered provision

of Your constant love.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poetic Bloomings:  write an “If not for (blank)” poem

Day 14

 

American Robins lay bright blue eggs, three to five per clutch, with four being the most common. 

This “American Robin” has had four in her “clutch.”  We’ve raised three to adulthood, with our fourth nearly there.  We’ve been through much—depression, addictions, overdose, losing loved ones to suicide, the long-term effects of PTSD/I, etc.  This list is not exhaustive.  It’s hard to be a parent, it’s hard to be a child—it’s hard to be a person—life can be filled with so much pain.  But there is so much beauty, too.  In part, that’s why I’m using birds in my poetry so much this month.  And for me, I could not have sustained any of it without the Master Brood-keeper.

“He will cover you with his pinions (feathers), and under his wings you will find refuge;” Psalm 91:4a

 

Fully Hope End Up

 

When pain escapes,

it’s a relief.

 

Like when my mom

describes my grandma’s passing,

 

her body gripped by pain

for so many years,

 

bent in the shape

of the chair

 

where she spent

most of her last days.

 

The whoosh—

a gone pain

 

released from a mortal body.

 

I felt something like it this morning.

That One Certain Memory

 

blinking like a cursor

when I woke.

 

Do you have one, too?

That memory

 

always accompanied

by the pain that bent you, still bends you?

 

It was gone.

 

And my heart stretched out like a palm

on Sunday,

 

hope-end up

to You.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poem-a-Day 13:  write a “Full (blank)” poem, make it your title

NaPoWriMo 13

 

Photo:  inside The Mission in the Sun © 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

a poem for palm Sunday

 

Here

Today, blue is a dusk-purple sunrise

shaken by wind,

cloudy

with a chance of—?

 

Rain.  No, I wouldn’t call it that.

Not from where I come from.

 

But here,

just a spattering of

little holes left in the sand,

a thumbprint’s depth

is all.

 

But here I take your hand,

walk where a coyote

shimmies up under the fence,

trotting off,

eyes darting.

He’s confident he’ll find prey here.

 

I should be so confident

you always provide

what I need.

And if you don’t,

and I die,

I die

provided for.

I am always in your hands.

 

I don’t believe this is all there is

any more

than I am all there is.

 

I didn’t create this breath in my lungs

or the lungs which breathe it,

didn’t create this dust

which matches my skin—

cells blowing away into

the atmosphere.

 

I didn’t create my own life—

that’s your job.

I am to live it—that’s mine.

 

And to you my life will go

when it’s done.

 

This sand, this dust

I am

to I AM.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

I AM:  Exodus 3:14, John 8:58

“If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty’s hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”  Daniel 3:17-18

“For he who has entered His rest has himself also ceased from his works as God did from His.”  Hebrews 4:10