Thank You, Lord, for snow in April

Born to clean air and open fields
on a land that wrote its own laws,
respect was learned early
in the killing frost
and in the thaw.

Be careful what you pray for…
you might get it.

Praises to this slow-born Spring;
it takes its time, no thought of revenge
against Winter.   Rivers rise up in overflow,
Ponds are unable to contain their joy
at winter’s end.

Every path a labyrinth of mud
and sticks, and if you look too close,

Words can never hurt you.

After Spring,  Summer will come.
To everything there is a season.
No shoes, bee stings
and gardening until hands
and skin were blistered.

Laboring under a blazing sun,
a fifteen minute lunch break.

and crusty bread.
A few good years remember
more variety,

Mostly more baloney,
fried crisp and laced with blackstrap,
fare fit for a king.

Heaven is blessed with perfect rest
but the blessing of earth is toil.

Did you think this was a complaint?
Where else could one awaken
to butterfly ballet in a field of clover
or savor the taste of fresh churned butter
slathered on home baked bread?

Where, indeed?
And so we learn
in this slow-Spring’s pale light

to live by faith, not by sight.


Italicized quotes are accumulated wisdoms from various proverbs and advisory injunctions.


Let the Wind Blow

The wind is playful today;
it has teased the boxwood
to bloom. Of course
it started with the sun
so wonderfully warm,
sending rays
to awaken deep roots
from their stupor…
to raise them to bud,
then to bloom in profusion
like butterflies
freed from cocoons.
O! the joy that we know.
Yea, let the wind blow.

In Humble Adoration

Winter’s dismal cold,
when every breath
was an op art sculpture,
was more than a season;
it was a miracle of survival
where even I,
who sometimes struggles
with each step,
walked on water.
Of course it was frozen;
everything was
and along the margin of the bay
where daffodils will bloom in spring,
I slow stepped
in boots with tread so thick
it would make Michelin proud.
Everybody knows it takes a sturdy sole
to stay upright in winter.
Thank you Lord
for an encouraging calendar
and the hint of green
on my lawn.

On the Wings of a Setting Sun

Atop the hill day makes its goodnight cry
in flame-red hues of myth and mystery,
Divine creation with a  breathy  sigh
burnishes earth in golden artistry.

Would I were that speck in majestic flight,
the wing’ed sparrow soaring high above
unfettered by melancholy twilight
nor taunted by the specters born thereof.

To feel the rush of wind beneath such wings,
to coast on currents warm with fading sun,
What makes the faith that lets the caged bird sing?
What wisdom lets a finished day be done?

Last vestiges of sun slip from my gaze
as melancholy turns to words of praise.