I am thankful for:
my God , who presents us with life and truth and Love,
who chooses to be
and totally God.
For grace and resiliency,
for fortitude and strength.
For my community, with its heroes and clowns, its dramas and comedies.
For my family, who are, after all, the ones that love me in spite of myself.
I am thankful for my spouse, the example of love and all its many aspects,
and for all the beloved children in our lives,
for the friends who are near and far whom we love and love us in return.
I am thankful for maple trees and oaks,
sassafras and pine,
for the birds who take shelter in these trees
and find sustenance at my feeders.
For all the creatures that roam through my life
and the one that takes up residency in our house.
I am thankful for my home, a place of serenity and peace.
I am thankful for peace
and the streets of my country
when there is peace in these places.
I am grateful for freedom
I am thankful for politeness
and kind words.
I am thankful for babies
and old people.
I am thankful that we have been
and will be again.
I am thankful we have been
and will be again.
I am thankful for what has been
what we are in the midst of
and what will be.
I am thankful.
The north wind shushes the sleet,
the lazy fall of fine snow
just dusting the cedar boughs.
And not so much
to weigh the afternoon down
or discouraging sounds
of the opinionated crows,
but just the right amount
to suggest the coming winter
and all its heavy lifting.
But not today-
today is the first glaze of ice
on the path
with just enough substance
to lay paw prints
of fox and hare
across the dimly lit day
as it drifts
with the cold north wind.
These astonishing whorls of ice are formed as the sap in the grasses and weeds freezes and bursts from the plant membranes to be squeezed into the frigid temperatures.
Due to our warm autumn, the plants had not gone completely dormant, so they were still filled with moisture. A perfect situation for the drop in temperature to cause these beautiful frost flowers to form.
Each is delicate and fragile. A mere touch can cause them to shatter. And a few moments of sun can cause them to just evaporate into the cold air.
ephemeral, delicate beauty
swirled from winters touch
to blossom in the cold morning air
lines of geography sewn
into flesh and muscle,
needled from silken to coarseness,
fragile to enduring.
Fabrics woven into years
of patchworked life,
tattered and torn ,
to be mended
Weary threads continue to unravel
to be caught up again
by sharp silver needles,
darning the gaps
strengthening the ties,
binding the thoughtless wounds,
the intimate grief.
Steady hands fold the hems,
straight and narrow,
to be cut through
and reworked into patterns
of spring to summer
Each moment embroidered
to its best possible telling
as the pattern emerges
from faded cloth.
Seeing the mythologies explained
in pieced remnant and scrap,
we fold its story around us,
holding tight against the cold.
morning has broken
early dawns light
fills the morning cove
calling the mists from the water
to rise with the sun
like the first morning
cover the morning meadow
fragments of the full frost moon
born of the one light
to the brightening sky
the cove stirs with
wild geese rising
Eden saw play
sound of baby’s laughter
fills the early morning air
joy rises with the sun
Morning Has Broken
Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the world
Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass
Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God’s recreation of the new day
Words by Eleanor Farjeon
Music traditional Scottish Gaelic tune
Sun falling beyond the western ridge.
Gilding the few clouds in gold,
tinged in dusty mauve and lavender.
Trying to release it all
in a few stolen moments on the porch
while the shrimp bubble in the creole sauce
and the bread warms.
Exposed on the south and west by old rattlely windows,
the porch gives the twilight permission
to sit for a few moments in the old rocking chair
as the first bats sweep across the darkling sky.
I walk in and stir the rice.
I wash my face
and modulate my voice, removing the weariness and panic.
No sense in letting on.
I am tied to this life.
Chosen or saddled,
it is my path.
The gate to my freedom only opened by her death.
Fairness has nothing to do with life.
She lies in her bed,
well made of the soft earth,
She lies comfortable,
considering the properties of rain
and how needy the roots of the young sapling.
She no longer hungers
but she is nourished
as she counts
and, oh, how lovely the sun looks
each time it rises over the ridge,
raising the tiny living grasses
to wave over her .
easy in her bed.
***EMILY: “Does anyone ever realize life while they live it…every, every minute?”
STAGE MANAGER: “No. Saints and poets maybe…they do some.”― Thornton Wilder, Our Town