Last summer's oak leaves hang in a cluster
like silent bells above my head.
I stand beneath them gazing upward
in this season of hope and dread.
So much rather ear will listen
to the shiny ringing bell
than attend to withered fragile
crumbling leaf with silent knell.
What is left to seek or hope for
when the loss is cold nail driven
into emptied faith like a coffin?
I accept as gift the leaves I'm given.

The winter wonder landed
in micro masterpiece,
a miracle of matter,
a brilliant crystal sign,
unseen except by children
and the foolish dreaming kind.

There is no quick walk in the woods for me.

No brisk arm swinging march that rushes by.

Each moment some new wonders catch my eye;

I stand astonished, or on bended knee.

A sun pierced leaf, exquisite artistry,

Like stained glass shard flung from cathedral sky,

Or grounded oak leaf tucked in snow to die,

Its honest brown writ fine with filigree.

Some crystal clear and perfect curl of ice,

Or frost encrusted seed head hanging low,

On view to all who come, asking no price:

Such masterpiece should have a wider show

Though my admiration swells, it can't suffice.
I offer gratitude, and footsteps in the snow.

 

 

I take comfort in the dying of the year: the brightest leaf will fall.

And then the long white-blanketed sleep of winter.

I cannot think we step from this life to instantly dance with Jesus.

Give me a season to rest from what is past,

To rest for what's ahead:

A new beginning of eternal spring.

 My husband and I have a somewhat traditional relationship. When it comes to the farm work, he does most of the outdoor stuff, and when it comes to matters in the house, I do the cooking, the cleaning (although sporadically), the laundry. We have different ways of dealing with stress, or difficulties in life. Sometimes reading is my escape, my mental rest for a time until I can face the day again. And sometimes just a glance into a book will hook me with no aforethought, and I will be entranced for a while...

Yes, yes, there will be cake that I will make.

But now there is book and I must look

Into what's in it, just for a minute

Or maybe an hour, a day, a year,

Forget for a while what's now and here.

Yes, yes, I will clean, fill the washing machine,

But think of the words skimming like birds

And taking me far from where we are

To wonderful, frightening or spellbinding places

New worlds and old stories and familiar faces.

There will be food put on table again,

But I'm reading now and can't promise when.