• My Poems

    How to Measure Time {a #poem}

    I swerved around a swallowtail today, its goldblackblue mosaic translated across the glass and gone. Street’s curbed outline caught the corner of my eye as the colorburst startled me to noticing, awakened me to a sight just past the neighbors. A sudden glimpse of canines at their master’s feet—heads anon, ears aperk—then they rose and trotted on. ***** What if darting visions, experience, growth were not an arrow whizzing by in time but instead layers that land over our lives like a blanket? What might we make of it, the mundane atop daysweeksmonths of richness? Years folding slowly, one event or view at a time—like the memory of a butterfly’s…

  • The Church Year

    What’s in a Name? Only Everything {an Advent Post}

    There can be no manner of doubt a name is more easily remembered when its meaning is understood.  –A.J. Macself, from the Foreword, “Plant Names Simplified” I forgot to plant my amaryllis bulb the week of All Hallow’s Eve. I wrote about the practice in my Christmas season book, how planting a crinkly, brown bulb with antenna-like roots can be a lesson in patience and waiting during the Advent and Christmas season. But I was too busy to remember. Goodness. So, I potted the inglorious bulb the other day after soaking the accompanying ground-up coconut shreds in warm water, watching them miraculously expand and nearly overtake my 32-ounce glass measuring…

  • My Poems

    Leafworks {a #poem}

    Like the bound bud in the almost bloomed magnolia, there is life ready to burst, tight secrets on the God side buried within these cool, bright days. I’m waiting, watching, counting the sleeps until a quiet wonder world awakes. Amazed, I waltz between the longest watch from each dormant doorway, through the chill and darkened mornings to a heart like an open gate. Ear cupped, poised for my next birth, I linger for delivery of the morning’s message– free and God-breathed– a silent, green unfurling. ——-

  • My Poems

    Begin Again {a #poem}

    September’s singular day arrives with the turning of many pages, paper or otherwise. Limbs of another rich and growing year branch upward, leading to vistas bright and unknown. An imaginary climb, I’m grateful for handholds, eyes on the open, azure sky. Did Eden’s first morning in that tree-filled glade startle the couple awake, their eyes on a new dawn? Burst with the gift of hope, that unknown need of a fresh start? I say yes. This new day, like that one, rich with possibilities awaits as we journey. Now at a walk (or sometimes fly) and fall, sure of a steady Hand to right us. Our steps re-turned to the…

  • My Poems

    65 is Just a Number {a #poem}

    There is no statute of limitations on vision. My old eyes register a darting messenger of God’s blatant, creative joy. Watch the winged creation hover in a web of air. Spy a sleuthing intruder snap-tapping its way across the wood, tunneling away and down the outside stairs. No expiration (yet) for hearing, cataloguing birdvoice and the chipclacking of breakfast at the feeder, the squeaking insistence at the fountain. Teach me to number my days, Lord, to register the ways your wind ruffles the tablecloth in the morning’s gentle breeze, how cool, shortened shadows signal this sea change of a season rippling towards quieter times. May I live this calendar daily,…

  • Poetry

    The Ministry of Trees {a #poem}

    Autumn morning, my eyes are trained through windows to the shadow show on tree trunks, crayon box of colors falling through space from newly-revealed branches. Creator comes to mind, how He carries us, colors us, covers us with His power, tree-like arms our strength, raising us Heavenward. Aware that sap is invisible, a pulsing, sticky river, carrying nourishment in its wake while eyes are trained on cottonwood, maple, Evergreen. I rarely wonder at their hidden strength, seldom stop to remark, Would you look at the energy feeding those trees!? And still it flows. Likewise we fuss and worry that God may not be at work while we grow our leaf-filled days.…

  • My Poems

    Quiet on the Wind {a #poem}

    On the wind His words gently breezing through the pinwheel turning, iridescent blue blowing across the surface moving gently, forcing me to hear, “I’m here” while I ponder slowing– less turning, more still- like the quiet trees hushing, the soft branches suspended, punctuation placed securely on the pages of the sky, declaring a full stop. I’ve heard rumors of His kindness, long to be bathed with words. I lean in lingering, straining for His voice. Cupping His hand o’er my ear, He shares secrets like a lover, and I am washed into waking shocked at the power of quiet on the wind.