Dusk settles in on this last week of winter.

Light lingers a few more minutes.

The day’s news, grim and foreboding,

weighs on our minds, breaks our hearts.

Night’s darkness helps to mask our pain,

but still we question our responsibility

in these times. Is there nothing we can do?

Too heavy.  Too much.

We say a prayer and slip into sleep.

Soon spring will come, perhaps new peace.

Nature does not contemplate our human endeavors,

but reacts to changes in environment, no matter the cause.

Hope carries us through to dawn

with ice and snow near gone.

We long for bulbs to awaken and inspire us

to live in peace and beauty once again.

I hear their loud, rattling, bugle calls

filtering down from high in the sky.

The sharp light of the sun blinds me

as I search for a glimpse of them.

Then I see them reeling northward

in large swirling flocks – swoops.

I smile cheerfully watching their seeming

confusion on their springtime journey.

Their calls encourage each other

to pay attention and follow.

This looks like confusion or

joyful play to us down below.

I love the neighboring geese calling and

flying in formation over my house.

But, the wild springtime visitation of

Sand-hill Cranes thrills my soul.

I encourage them on their flyway to

places like Tomahawk,, Wisconsin

where they often visit, replenishing themselves

and perhaps, making their summer plans.

He made us all the same: hearts and lungs, skin and bones.
We chose to wander on our own: far from normal, far from home.

Over time our bodies changed: hair and skin, natural adaptations.
We lived in different zones and places. Small groups grew into separate nations.

Today we seem not to remember from whence we came.
We’ve let hatred and fear separate us by label, race, and name.

The Creator watched and breathed into us His Spirit.
We called it love and still some of us fear it.

He made us all the same, body and soul.
Love is the power He gave us to make us once more whole.

Sometimes it takes a flood to wash away the dirty refuse,

the piles of lies, deceits, and false promises that momentarily give hope to the hopeless.

Noah’s Ark floated above the lost while all below were wiped out,

the good and the bad alike.

God does not have to step in to clean up our current world.

We will bring on our own flood: with conflict over power and wealth,

with refusal to see the oceans rising.

It will wipe out all in the end, the good and the bad alike.

We are lost until we listen to the shouts of the poor: until we see the destruction of nature; until we feel the pain of all mankind, until we look for reasonable answers.

There are solutions within our reach and imagination.

We must build an Ark of truth, hope, and universality.

We need conversation and honest exchange between young and old, men and women,

religions and government, everywhere and all included.

The waters are rising.

Few footprints mark the path that winds quietly round the lake.

I go there when I need a place of peace to meditate.

Now in the early spring I go to fill my cup with life.

Drained by winter’s cold and trials, battered by stress and strife.

Ice clumps float against the shore where tree roots lie exposed.

New plants struggle to break free of woodland, decomposed.

With each step down the path I take, I leave old thoughts behind.

And step from out the shell I am as spring winds clear my mind.

There is beauty in a quiet cove as infant waves play there.

A tiny ground squirrel romps about oblivious to despair.

If my load is heavy, my soul near drowned, the earth pays it no heed.

Life teaming underneath the soil is determined to succeed.

High above in naked trees birds congregate to chat.

Some unknown whistle blows the call that brings their brothers back.

Refreshed now, I retrace my steps on the footpath round the lake.

A Moment in Time

It was a dark, cold, first day of a new year.
Then a slow transformation took place.
A setting sun turned the sky pink, blue, peach, and gray.
A glowing pastel background spread behind the giant,
Norwegian Pine tree standing at attention, in a blanket
of white snow. The pine’s long needles and sparse branches
made waves of translucent color shimmer in the breeze.

Then the wind stopped, holding its breath as if life was
suspended in the beauty of the moment. All was still.
All was beautiful. This was the beginning of a new year.
It was a moment of inspiration and hope, a moment of gratitude
for the world we inhabit and all that it gives us.
Then slowly, silently, night spread her cloak over the earth.
The show was over, but the glow remained.

1/1/2016

When I was conceived in love,
my heart began to beat
in time with my mother’s heart.

Then I heard other sounds called
music, which she loved.
She hummed sweet lullabies.

Her body moved in synchronous
rhythms to the beat
of her beloved music.

From birth and beyond
my rhythm was formed.
I consumed my favorite sounds.

Time can change music’s form
as I change in my tastes.
Love songs moved my heart.

If in old age I seem unaware
of life all around me,
give me my music.

The songs I loved are still inside.
I need to hear them once again.
For music is love alive and beating.

Music is the last to leave
when I give up this old body.
Help me hear that love once more.

Let us give thanks for

the beautiful gift of Christmas.

I cannot give peace to the world,

but I can work on harmony in my own family.

I cannot keep pain or sorrow from others,

but I can share joy and compassion with them.

I cannot give the perfect gift to everyone,

but I can give them each my love and attention.

Christmas is an opportunity to share

all that is good in each of us with others.

The Blue Heron

Gracefully gliding in at sunset,

the Blue Heron stands silently

assessing its safety, ever vigilant,

scouring the shallow waters

off Puget Sound for a meal.

Broken clam shells, small rocks, and kelp

lie in clear pools gently pulsing

in shore and out, inshore and out.

The silver glint of a small minnow Is

terminated with one deft strike from the bird.

Two herons drop down nearby.

Their silken flight ending soundlessly.

Timing is everything to these sky masters.

Soon the tide will rush the beach and

the herons will retreat to their secret domains.