The Nature of Things

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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.”
Psalms 19:1

Over at dverse we’re taking a look at nature’s healing touch.

Dirge for a Tree

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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
with vengeance,
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.

Silent Night

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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.”

Psalm 39:12

Not the feathers of a nightingale, I know, yet the music of one I no longer hear.

Garden Sweat

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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!