Grace: Hope Beyond Hope

morning-glory.jpg

Masking ruthless aggression

with pink-blushed flowers,

morning glory thrives

in sun or shade,

in flower beds, farmlands,

fields, and ravines;

reproduces from roots,

rhizomes, stems, or seeds;

revives after decades of

lying lifeless underground;

and is eradicated only by constant

smothering and spraying.

 
Likewise, our most persistent sins,

clad in clever rationalizations,

must be overcome

by unremitting applications

of faith and prayer

and continuous suffusions

of atoning grace.

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Temper Tantrum

castle rocks yellow bell

 

In a last ditch effort to

foil Spring’s debut,

Winter throws a royal fit:

frenzied snow squalls,

blasts of windy fury,

hails of icy orbs.

His coup de grace?

suffocating stratus shrouds.

 

Nonetheless,

Yellow Bell lifts her head.

I Met a Yogi While Walking

calico cat - shutterstock

The calico cat

sat, motionless, guru-like

inscrutable sage

Summer Idyll

yellow-headed blackbird

 

O, enchanted hour beneath the willow tree

on grassy banks beside a wandering stream

where yellow-headed blackbird calls atop a reed–

 

who ordained this tranquil hour of

cooling breeze, largesse unwitnessed

but for iridescent dragonfly?

 

Total Commitment

 

Photo by Felice R. Bond

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like a tiny dive bomber,

the hummingbird 

plunges her whole self

into the heart of a trumpet vine flower,

drinking deeply the sweet.

 

Can I, like she,

immerse myself,

regardless of hazards

and the shortness of the season,

in the prospects of the day?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spring Caprice

clouds in mccall

the air holds its breath,

expectant, clouds press earthward,

birthing waggish wind

Bucket List

bow bridge 

If I could walk upside down on the cobalt blue of the sky,

I would stride past Lincoln and Washington,

past the Revolutionary War and the Pilgrims at Plymouth,

and keep going until I came to Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel

and walk right out of his painting into the colorful tumult of the Renaissance.

 

If I could catch the tail of a cloud as it floated by,

I would wrap myself in its periwinkle folds

and emerge on a misty Scottish moor

and walk around for a day and a night

looking for Heathcliff and other tortured souls.

 

My fondest dream, though, would be to ride a wave of migrating birds

and surf my way past contrails and comets,

to wave to the pilot of a 747, and then lean way, way back

and nod off to the calling of geese

and the mournful keen of a bagpipe.

Vision of Spring

 

Castle rocks creek with sun

On the first day of April,

Ariel sat by a stream,

her honey-colored

hair spilling onto

the blue ocean of her shirt.

 

Her head tilted sweetly

as she read The Last Song

by Nicholas Sparks–

her fuchsia Mongoose bike

abandoned on the path.

 

She might have been an ordinary girl.

 

Dance of the Deciduous

dancing trees

Will you dance? says she, her arms upraised in pleasing grace.

A waltz? says he, as he bows his head a trace.

And so they do the pas de deux through March and April too.

 

Drunk on Spring Air

Cauldron LinnI take an intoxicating gulp

of air as I step out the door.

Delirious with joy,

I sense a slight hint of warmth,

the barest scent of growing things.

 I breathe in

and in

and in . . .

like someone who has been

suffocating,

I just can’t get enough

of the balmy feel

in my lungs

and the heady whiff

of summer coming on.