All words dress their tiny lines and curves in black, looking much the same. They blur together— grey streets across a page, taking us to bigger places. So why do some words— made of letters like the rest— stop my eyes, catch my heart, and drain me as if they bear the beauty of a … Continue reading Those Words
Most people come in prose— masterpieces that the world could not do without. But when You wrote me, you wrote poetry— imaginative, concise, and rhyming You. And when I look around, I see glory where others see cliche— bits of poetry sprouting in the grass, jumping trees with squirrels, resting moon-like in the clouds. I … Continue reading My Poet
Little hopes grow like weeds— looking pretty in the grass. Must we weed them out? Pull them up today, and they’ll be back tomorrow, anyway, whimsical as ever. Of course, they may die some time, but so will the flowers. I’ve a mind to let them stay— a yard full of color in a dull … Continue reading Little Hopes
How dreary! Winters in the South— grey trees against the mournful sky— weeping, sulking, drudging in the cold. ••• Make my heart like winters of the West— unending sky that gives and gives the snow— swirling, glittering, hopeful in the cold.
Who can solve the puzzle of life? All the tiny pieces— the incomprehensible piles strewn across the table— plague the mind. We know there’s a picture there— somewhere, but how and where and when do the pieces fit? ... God knows. ... Take the piece He gives you, and lay it at his feet. One … Continue reading Puzzles
Dark world, but how the streets shine— scarlet, then emerald! And sparkling on the windshield, rain, the gentle applause— this day is done.
Puddles, unlikely windows to the sky, small, impure, vanishing with passing day, trace a gaze-inviting glimpse of the grandeur of the heavens. May the Grandeur of Heaven trace Himself on me, making me, though small, impure, vanishing with passing day, an unlikely window to the Sky.