Non-Fiction Essays on Faith and Life
Meditatio Centre - 3 talks on Meister Eckhart (2018)

"So, Too, the Heart"

So, Too, the Heart


The old temple bell

still sings in the silences,

waiting for the hammer

to bring it again to song.


   ~ Mark S. Burrows, ©2016 (published in Arts 28.1 (2016)



It wasn't just the fire flaming us

like two trees leaning into each other,

branches and leaves slowly unfurling


as they give themselves to heat and light

and the luminous burn of silence.  Not

this only, but also the unspoken things


that came alive between us, treasures

harboring in the breath we blessed in

the sharing, keeping vigil in the descent


of wild tongues upon us, flesh and bone

alive as on that first Pentecost--bearing

witness to the truth we know, if at all,


in the margins beyond saying:  that love

descends to meet us in our desires, joins

us in a convergence we finally know


only as a reckoning, gathering the lost

distances and bringing us to the truth

we know at the end of every beginning.


Published in "The Anglican Theological Review" 97: 1  (Winter, 2015), 109



I live slowly into the grace

that holds the shape of my


brief wanderings on this earth

a reservoir to gather the bits


and pieces of lost dreams

a vessel to hold the sorrows


that find their place amid these

fragments a hollow never bare


where once I gathered shards of

hope I’d thought to manage my


self not safe but grief unleashed

into the final dimming truth of loss


once I’d felt the ground beneath

my feet as warm and firm even


though I knew the odds otherwise

clouds drifting and changing their shape-


shifting and my seeking what none

can ever know or ever finally tell


their forms and faces mirror the

one last and final truth of wandering


their instability a sign from the far

shores of loss their dream a call


from a near and unmarked path into

the wideness and the wild of ever now

        Mark S. Burrows (© 2013)


Not Finally Separate 

“Not Finally Separate”


The grasses don’t know

or don’t seem to care

if I gaze upon them

or pass by indifferently

disregarding the shadows

cast by their slender

swaying lines so too

the beetles that scratch

about scuttling across

the small rocks bathing

their hard-shelled selves

in the heat of the late-

day sun they wander as

I also do my body and theirs

moving beneath drifting

shadows of grass and

bush and tree their

innocence deeper than

mine but not finally

separate a gathering of

dreams common and singular

fragile and evasive as the

shifting pillows of clouds


Mark S. Burrows (Santa Fe; 2013)