Saplings

They grow, they emerge.

Gifts blossom like seeds into flowers,

and sometimes they burst out like an explosion.

Fears creep up like vines and work into their walls because

they are still porous, still hardening into what they will become.

And in a pack of four,

one shades the other and one leaves water for the bigger one,

like a forest where the trees all look out for each other.

And I can tend and rake and pour and prune,

but the weather comes from God above and I am rooted into one spot too,

and those saplings move away with the current of the earth as it shifts.

I see one stronger,

there’s a weaker one there, one bends harder in the wind and one is solid as an oak.

To think I never would have known the smell of the leaves or colors of these mixed trees

Had they not been born or grafted here.

They are glory

to my eyes.

And I like for

people to see them.

 

Advertisements

A Baby Moose

There was this sweet little guy once, munching a bush:

He was shy around people so he ran for the woods.

Unlike this creature here who thinks he’s a wolf:

But sort of like this one, only not wearing boots.

More with it than I am, that might be the truth:

Because I wrote in my notebook how the sky is a roof.

Or an ocean where wind gives white sail-ships a push

And how I sat on the floor of a sea on my tush.

My kids gone to the beach must turn my brain into mush,

Cause there’s nothing to write, but about this moose and a bush.

Song of My Windchimes

 

They fought with each other, this Earth and the Sky.

Out the window I saw it, Sky flinging rain by.

I wondered why such rage, as it shouted and cried.

Then I saw something green, growing strong, and I smiled.

 

You see, Sky’s been in charge here, this whole winter gone by.

It’s been freezing and blowing, and sucking Earth dry

It sieges the ground, turns to dust what was life.

And so it thinks every year, Sky’s won and Earth’s died.

 

But I’m in on a secret, and don’t I feel sly

That more runs this world than the strength of the sky.

There’s an army emerging, growing greener with time.

They nod in the breeze, their secret is mine.

 

And today the Sky saw us, it throws my wind chimes

But the songbirds are back now, they ignore it and fly

They sit in the branches, little leaves small and bright

Singing songs with my windchimes, Spring has conquered the Sky.

White Carpet Ain’t For Mamas: (A Really Bad Poem)

White Carpet ain’t for mamas

but still I laughed outloud

We had some major M&M drama

 I got photos, and I ain’t proud

He’s still half in his pajamas

And shrieking really loud

His drool gave my heart trauma

But he threw it like there was a crowd

That’s why white carpet ain’t for mamas

It’s all too plain to see

That it gives this mama trauma

His M&M pajama spree.

There Were Fires

We walked through some woods, my happy family and I, but the trees were all dead from the fires.

We looked for some leaves, my happy family and I, we walked shadeless beneath white rocky spires.

We traipsed past a log, my wandering children and I, it was black on the shell and had fallen.

We scrambled through rocks, exploring children and I, charcoaled soot into dirt, broken, sodden.

They sang in the woods, those peaceful children of mine, I think birds hovered low in new pine trees.

They skipped down the trail, peaceful children, all mine, faces red but shown grace by a fine breeze.

I looked down the woods,  surreal family behind,  eyes were open and that’s when I saw them.

I stooped into grass,  family running up ahead, and saw flowers, gently nodding their welcome.

I ran stamping dirt, wide-eyed children were waiting, and I pointed out all of those flowers.

We came down the path, silly Mama still panting, but they’d seen them for hours and hours.

So I stopped where I was, Gifts all laid out in front, and turned round with eyes open in wonder.

I saw that scorched woods, Gifts glowing bright in the sun, grew such colors, out of logs broke asunder.

I turned toward their figures, their backs turned to me, and thought beauty does come from the ashes.

I stared at the ground, was it so hard to see, scars are stories-  years go by and pain passes.

I caught up to my clan, they were frolicking with joy, and I walked in a bright understanding.

There’s new life to grow, not around, not below, but through tree trunks laid bare and demanding-

That the wounds don’t stay black, that they nourish and grow, all new trees and the flowers that grow there.

Finger presses lens shut, it opened wide and found grace, I’ve a photo and that’s how I’ll remember

How we drove home full with dust, and the breeze that fell sweet, my children watching a sun glow to embers.

And when we walk through some woods now, my sweet family with me, and I see strangers-the ones that God rendered,

But walking past those burnt trees, bent down hard, just like me, may they see the flowers, and give thanks to their Sender.

A Day of Blessing

A day of feet

A day of dishes

A day of defeat

A day of misses

A day of helping

A day of letters

A day of pressing

Cannot get better

A day of blessings

Shown to this small one

Shown to this tall one

Gift to this small one

Am not regressing

Each day’s a lesson

Each day’s a blessing.

Hope

Seasons are a blessing from God.

And Spring is the birth of Hope.

Spring is the fulfillment of an unspoken Promise.

Of new life that sings my God has not forgotten His world.

That Winter’s gray is deadly, but that seasonal forces have little real power.

Winter’s clouds weigh in heavy and low, mocking and unending.

If my eyes knew no colors but green and pink and sunshine, would I understand Hope?

Spring after Winter is a Gift.

It’s the birth of old Faithfulness, of life emerging from deep winter layers; and it is, for those who see it, the renewed birth of Hope.