A Moment

Sandhill Cranes from a few summers ago…

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I meander thawing meadow path. My grandson trails behind. Above a sandhill crane soars across muted sky. Mud caked hove prints cover our way. I gaze at my grandson. His eyes filled with wonder, as he freely asks questions. Questions about the nature of life. Trotting on through woods we spot the crane atop marsh ice. We linger in awe. The best things in life are freely enjoyed in a moment of time.

scarlet masked crane
hidden behind brittle grass
plumage reveals all

 

“Children’s children are the crown of old men, and the glory of children is their father.” Proverbs 17:6 Linking up at dVerse for a look at things free in life.

Rippled Peace

ripples

My day often…
reflects a watershed;
pressure from drainage
passing my way.

Swirling,
twisting,
whirling,
over a mosaic of stone
saturating in blues:
cobalt, cerulean, catalin.

My day often…
becomes a tributary
one ripple to the next
flowing toward me.

Dashing,
hastening,
surging,
till banks over flow
infuse my soul;
waiting for a sliver of peace.


“I will both lie down in peace, and sleep;

for You alone, O Lord,
make me dwell in safety.” Psalm 4:8

There’s a bit of expression going on over at dVerse. Stop in a see what’s happening.

When Healing Comes

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Ghosts of the past, unable to migrate as foul of the heavens, drift about daily memories. If only I could alight from this earthly loss. Just seek the dawning of new day, bath in a spring rain, or rest on sandy shore and heal.

For Lizzie: “But the night shines as the day; the darkness and the light are both alike to You.” Psalm 139:12. I’m joining in the fun by writing a Quadrille of 44 words, including the word ghost, over a dVerse.

In the Word

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Pain comes and days draw nigh as I birr to my fortress. My keep, a sanctuary of stability, reminds me life is vaster than misery. It makes naught the storm or season for I am steadfast. Roots, tendrils, sweep deep drinking rivers of fresh waters. Gales rip at unripe fruit; I surrender not a leaf.

Visiting my massive maple tree which sits atop our highest kettled hill brings comfort. Below a marshy pond houses many critters. With late months of winter arriving, the marsh and tree come alive with song of birds. The sun warms cold flesh and I am refreshed. Not only now, but during my times of struggle I revisit this image and am reminded, as a child of God, I am firmly planted and can stand firm because I’m not alone.

steeple soaring sky,

ebony silhouette show;

my soul now aglow!

Inspired from Psalm One and encouraged by dVerse to the marriage of verse and artwork on Haibun Monday I present In the Word. It is said we are what we eat, but I wonder if what we read shapes who we are?

Darkness Lost Its Place

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“Where is the way to
the dwelling of light;”
which ends of earth caress?
Why do you question?
Poor tired soul sulks:
forlorn, forsaken, fruitless.
As pointless days eternal,
dawn in dust and ash sleep.
Encased by God’s dawning light;
during testing… awakens. Rise!

I write a quadrille poem, inspired by Job 38:19, for dVerse making sure to utilize the word dawn.

On the Other Side of Winter

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I wrap my scarf tightly. The chill sinks deep. Mist rises and falls on frozen earth. Veiled clouds swirl over icy pond. All is still… breathless marsh grasses.

I linger in hope of returning critters: rambling ducks, chattering red-wings and gossiping geese soon will come home. It’s the prattling cricket frogs I long for these shadowy winter days. Till then I’ll be tranquil myself and wait.

Alabaster fog,

bundled stiff between seasons.

Awake marsh grasses!

It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse!

I’d Rather Write a Yarn

Mother’s fingers rocked needles;

they swayed a rhythm just their own.

Between the babbling strands of yarn

a clickety-clack, tender melody forlorn.

 

Yarn back, then forward, and front.

How confusing can knitting be?

Yet, she hummed each stitch with love

this I effortlessly could certainly see.

 

Binding off, a hopeless endless thing

to make that final, finished row.

Cast on, not as outdoorsy fishermen,

in their tranquil, pastoral river throw.

 

I with awkward, clumsy hands would

drop a stitch. Which could not go unseen?

My eyes powerless to see like hers:

SL1, SL1K, SL1P. What does it mean?

 

With her passing, the needles went to me

a novice or newcomer; not yet fledged.

Housed in cylinder case, gone to bed

till I heard their cry from closet’s ledge.

 

The aged needles won’t dance a waltz,

as mother could create them do.

Yet, in her memory of aged fiber art

I’ll construct a simple thing or two.

 

I’d rather inscribe a yarn or two,

put the needles to rest, bring out

the inky pen and let the paper sing.

Compose a rambling story stout.

 

I think that’s what I’ll do.

 

In the spirit of Irish poet, Seamus Heaney, we are writing about artisans over at dVerse. Having a little Irish in me and a love of fiber arts I write.