I really do not care for the mirrors In my daughterâs home. They read Bright and clear with ruthless truth But with no room for wrinkles to roam. Whereas, back home at our house Mirrors are honest with forgiving tact Offering a comforting, I know you. Welcome back. My problem is that hers make me look old Which I am…
A black cherry tree grew near our back door. It gathered itself into a modest but stately array of limbs and leaves, and in the spring spawned a shower of snowy flowers, inviting wasps and bees. In August when the berries ripened and the southern sun burned down the cherry tree was a bar for birds. They twittered and chirped,…
As the trees begin to mix their cathedral colors and blossoms seeded in the spring nod and wave their slow good-byes and bird songs soften to tweets of tittering gossip or complaints against the passing of the mating season, I find myself already awaiting the return of last yearâs cardinal who found perch in a branchy hollow deep inside…
The Winter Wheat (1997) If God is this winter wheat whose seed slept under snow just months ago awaiting still another awakening, and now stands raised yet deep-rooted on heads-up stalks billowing in the wind like the sea that once labored here; If God is this winter wheat flooding these plains and rolling away from me as far as I…