Sandhill Cranes from a few summers ago…
I meander thawing meadow path. My grandson trails behind. Above a sandhill crane soars across muted sky. Mud caked hove prints cover our way. I gaze at my grandson. His eyes filled with wonder, as he freely asks questions. Questions about the nature of life. Trotting on through woods we spot the crane atop marsh ice. We linger in awe. The best things in life are freely enjoyed in a moment of time.
scarlet masked crane
hidden behind brittle grass
plumage reveals all
“Children’s children are the crown of old men, and the glory of children is their father.” Proverbs 17:6 Linking up at dVerse for a look at things free in life.
Pain comes and days draw nigh as I birr to my fortress. My keep, a sanctuary of stability, reminds me life is vaster than misery. It makes naught the storm or season for I am steadfast. Roots, tendrils, sweep deep drinking rivers of fresh waters. Gales rip at unripe fruit; I surrender not a leaf.
Visiting my massive maple tree which sits atop our highest kettled hill brings comfort. Below a marshy pond houses many critters. With late months of winter arriving, the marsh and tree come alive with song of birds. The sun warms cold flesh and I am refreshed. Not only now, but during my times of struggle I revisit this image and am reminded, as a child of God, I am firmly planted and can stand firm because I’m not alone.
steeple soaring sky,
ebony silhouette show;
my soul now aglow!
Inspired from Psalm One and encouraged by dVerse to the marriage of verse and artwork on Haibun Monday I present In the Word. It is said we are what we eat, but I wonder if what we read shapes who we are?
I wrap my scarf tightly. The chill sinks deep. Mist rises and falls on frozen earth. Veiled clouds swirl over icy pond. All is still… breathless marsh grasses.
I linger in hope of returning critters: rambling ducks, chattering red-wings and gossiping geese soon will come home. It’s the prattling cricket frogs I long for these shadowy winter days. Till then I’ll be tranquil myself and wait.
bundled stiff between seasons.
Awake marsh grasses!
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse!
I drench my pillow with salty tears,
as night shadows loiter – slowly lurk;
till twinkling stars map promising hope.
Down woodland lane and sturdy oaks,
past thick meadow spills new growth,
toward endless surf and eternal sands;
all so much greater than I am.
There I whisper a longing prayer;
God’s creation with each rising sun.
“The heavens declare the glory of God;
And the firmament shows His handiwork.”
Over at dverse we’re taking a look at nature’s healing touch.
my camera’s lens captures unusual qualities
scoured by flood and drought’s full vengeance
a hundred trees, precious trees, now stand dying
lush woodland slipped away, no longer speaks is dying
why is it the present holds hand with faults of past qualities
ripping with revenge, pouring payback and venting vengeance?
wind whipping loose bark from trunk with vengeance
brittle branches breaking, crackling under foot still dying
is tree’s charm mislaid or making way for new emerging qualities?
my eye captures new qualities
no longer dying
Written in Tritinas Form (a,b,c…c,a,b…b,c,a…abc) in reflection to finding beauty in dieing tree and photographing them. Inspired by Emma’s dirge to Summer’s end. Linking up at dVerse.
The nightingale’s last cry;
a still born child at twilight.
A bundle of feather scattered,
tattered on parched ground.
Silent is the bleakest night,
till in prayer I cry out…
“Hear my prayer, O Lord,
and give ear to my cry;
do not be silent at my tears;
for I am a stranger with You,
a sojourner, as all my fathers were.”
Not the feathers of a nightingale, I know, yet the music of one I no longer hear.
Today, sweat is upon my brow
cooled by cloudy breeze.
Russian olive trees, in full bloom.
wafts ancient scent in cords.
Cake-like dirt clings on my knees,
joints ache from digging.
While crows call, call, call…
and last of cricket frogs simply sing.
Their melody is of comfort
for they’ve found a mate;
as little wren sits on nest
built by man-made hands.
The garden is my cozy home;
where wild rose stretch and climb
wired peaks I cannot and amethyst
pansies wink then give a little grin.
The primrose fades, as does
lacy lilacs busy setting new buds.
What comes of the ‘marrow;
I know not… for its only now.
My garden planting, weeding,
tilling, as abundant drops do fall.
refreshing my brow, the earth,
and dance among gay blooms.
Today… garden sweat’s upon my brow.
Linking up at dVerse where we are looking at everyday things. The shower felt good!