
some days open like honeycomb
dripping with the sweetness of mercy
and filled with the grace of a thousand summer skies
remember you are filled with light
and the heart of your heart
is strong
some days open like honeycomb
dripping with the sweetness of mercy
and filled with the grace of a thousand summer skies
remember you are filled with light
and the heart of your heart
is strong
Even though I no longer like the cold weather, for some reason my body is missing the frigid walks along the waters edge. The north wind slicing through layers and layers of sweaters and scarves and jackets like a very cold butter knife. And I seem to be expecting the fog to settle in and gray skies to be all I see except here, its sunny and not cold but dont get me wrong its not warm.
Its the blue skies so far that have me stunned in a good way because that fog would get in my mind and cover my eyes and my mouth until I was suffocated in its grieving heartless grayness.
I can live with not cold but not warm and the blue sky can visit my morning window all it wants cause this might be the last place I live and I will gladly die here in the blue skyness of it all.
the old pear tree reluctant to give way to solstice light stays green, each branch a banner to its spring heart until one day, one leaf, blood red as summers sunset is cast off to fend for itself in the cold winters wind and the tree relinquishes its hold to acquiesce to autumns desire
Its not withstanding the urgency
of breath and feeling,
molding into those things which
we say and do within our masks,
hiding in each moment.
But there are times,
when letting guards down,
we recognize our real faces
and wings unfurl
in the cold light of a November morning.
Wedge of deep silver
shadowed against the breast
of stone and water
opening isthmus arms
crux of land and sky
embracing water, earth deep,
bronze and gold, russet, indigo.
And leaving the warmth of bed and nights embrace,
I stretch toward the dark dawn,
aware of all mortality and grace
and the singular thought of ones life.
This too shall pass and like the meadow grasses
separating grain from chaff,
my soul will someday join the autumn wind
and sing shining into the cold morning.
grant us grace I wake on a rain soaked Sunday morning november has come calling and with it time change and falling back into a sweeter time sweeter than I have ever held windfalls of mercy I scoop up by the arm loads graceless and grateful
arranged on bales
a harvest of blessings
corn from the fields
apples for pressing
pumpkins for pies
October days lessen
blue skies of autumn
trees color dressing
changes in weather
winter storms guessing
we gather together
to ask the Lords blessing