The sun still shines.
Even at a slant it gives warmth
and light. It’s true, the buds have burst,
the blossoms bloomed out full,
the beauty faded, but underground
there’s the promise of return.

Ash and oak and spreading chestnut,
the maples most exuberant;
they know the drill,  know
the disappointment of shady canopy
stripped bare, They do not quit
nor do they slink away to shadow.

Even the fragile ferns bend
to the wind and praise the tempest
for the spores it spreads,
and the silver brook still gurgles
though the season of freeze
will have its way with it.

Each winter it looks as if the roses
are gone forever; each spring
they bloom again. To everything
there is a season. Whether we believe
or not, they will return.  Such
is the love of our Creator.


The Abundance that Completes Us

“One puts down the first line in trust that life and language
are abundant enough to complete it”   Wendell Berry

Having run the gauntlet
between lawn and tangled vine,
skipping across bare spots,
hopping over rocks,
hurrying to make a deadline,

we have learned
there is no need to check calendar
or clock to know that time
is the keeper of the score.

Searching for something,
we realize it is not a lack of food
that makes us hungry, nor the fear
of running out of ink

that makes us write,
more like some primordial need
that bends our knees
and bows our heads in prayer
for the abundance that completes us.