Beyond Imagination

What we leave behind
returns to greet us… unplanned,
unsought, unexpectedly.

Ever ancient, ever new,
the universe is a finely tuned
microcosm of miracles

and the human race, all string
and tin cans, is a discordant blip
on its echocardiogram.

Walk softly and carry no stick.
Life is not a fiction.  It is not
a spectator sport either.

Life is an amalgamation of dreams
and deeds that will return to us

to comfort or accuse.
We become the sum of our imagination
guided by the will of a greater God,

of miracles and dreams
and a microcosm yet to be seen.


The Sparrow’s Song

God have mercy
on those who view the hills
with cold eyes, with those
who see the sunset
and do not tremble
with new awe.

Between the lines,
between the mighty oak
and fragile lily, all the words
spoken and unspoken
glorify Your name.

In the notes of a sparrow’s song
the sound of gratitude and praise,
Your mighty hand
has gentled this creation into being.
Your loving heart
sustains it through the storm.

Summer’s Dwindling Days

Oh praise the blissful water,
the ripple of all life,

the icy splash and scream
of sea and pond,  the rock and slap
against the bottom of the boat,

And praise the sand
as It pours from the glass
too fast,  too fast.

Every granule
leaves a memory
of its passing,

Every sunlit morning
sings praises
to a dwindling store,

Every grain is precious.
Every moment begs one more.

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.