I am but a Tree in Your Garden

Leaves rustle

the scent of coming rain

is on the breeze

thunder breaks the silence in the distance

but I don't run for cover

there is no cover where I dwell

out in the open

like a book on a library pedestal

opened and exposed
unable to turn its own pages

to hide its deepest secrets

You read me like a book

but I suppose it is only fair

as You did make me

of course I filled the pages

but not all events were of my doing

though I participated

whether willingly or not

in every one listed therein

I wish some pages could be torn out

could blow away in the coming storm

I wish the ink wasn't indelible

so rain could wash away the hard words

but this book is alive

rooted deeply like a tree

there is no changing it

I can only hope that in seasons to come

my inner rings will be covered

by outer rings more pleasing

and when it's been written in its entirety
my hope is that in the end

the beginning will have found redemption

the evil will have been turned to good...

my leaves rustle for another season

grown to a fullness that cannot be changed

I drink deeply from the underground stream

and when the fall comes

I shall release the stories of this year

like leaves from my branches

they will float aimlessly on the breeze

to land in Your hands

You will have a season to read them

and I, a season to contemplate

before I try again

with the coming of my next spring

to overcome the storms of the past

when lightening threatened to destroy

and the larva of evil gnawed away under my bark

another season to dwell in Your garden

and I shall endure the storms

until I grow too old to absorb

the nutrients in this life giving soil

and then

on the day I fall

You will hear it

the loggers will come to cart me away

I will burn in the funeral pyre

and then it will be known

by the fragrance I give off

whether I am pleasing toYou or not

but for now

my leaves rustle in Your breezes

and I await the coming rain

Lover

Hey there lover

I was thinking of you

today

and yesterday

and tomorrow

Remember the first time

how we promised

it wouldn't be forgotten

but then it was

and now it is

Who can remember that first sensation

that first moment

when we knew

life would never be the same again

because now it was different

ever changing

and yet always would be the same

day in

day out

sun up

sun down

we wake

we sleep

and now we snore

old in body

young at heart

tell the wrinkles

and the muscle aches

all those dying cells forget

and all the new ones don't remember

but somehow in my heart
you are forever imbedded

like a handprint

hardened in the cement

dated 1961

every indent can still be traced

and so I will never forget you

Longing to Breath More Deeply

I grew up in the North

and I miss the scent of the air

on that first day of true spring

not the one decided by the calendar

or the equinox

but that first thaw

when the only evidence of melting snows

are the little dirty white clumps here and there

among the wet dull flattened grass

and the little streams

that wind their way under

pooling here and there

at low spots

otherwise unnoticeable

The air so cool
yet not quite crisp

but filled with so fresh a scent

A scent that cannot be bottled and sold

in spray cans on supermarket shelf

labeled Spring Freshness

This scent makes you want to fling open

every window in the house

to rid it of the winter air

that smelled fresh enough

until you walked outside

and breathed in true freshness

The air on those days seems to bounce

with particles of Life's potential

it seems to move to the beat

of invisible wings

and it seems to dance

and twirl with joy

as it touches barren trees

and empty meadows

wooing them from winter slumber

and calling for them

to join in the dance of spring

I miss that scent

a scent embedded in my memory

from a childhood
long ago lost

to a less sensitive adulthood

but every once in a while

even stuck here in the South

when I am outside

at just the right time

on just the right winter day

in just the right weather

I catch that scent on the breeze

and even though

it is not the first day of true spring

that scent still stirs within me
the promise of Life's potential

refreshing

what has fallen asleep

in winter's grip of death

and it woos me

from the complacency

of my modern human state

reminding me to join

in creation's dance

and for a moment

restored to the innocence of my birth
I am swept away

What refreshment

just a breath of such air can bring

If only my lungs had a greater capacity

perhaps I could then breathe deeply enough

to grasp the Truth

of all that I have lost touch with

but like all of creation

must have

once

been aware…

between the pages of time

oh for an ocean of time

in which to float along

and read the tales already written

and to write the ones yet untold

heaven has them all

angels holding favorites to their breasts

no fear of whispered spoilers

as the words are all there

read and reread

between the pages of time

mere mortals we

have only the pages

not the space between

not yet anyway

but I dream of a time

when there is an endless flow

a melding of pages written

and the space between

where nothing is a mystery

and yet all remains miraculous

oh for an ocean like that to float in

I would drift in that forever sea

dragging fingers along

to catch the tasty salted tales

The Writer

she was old

too old she felt for the task that had been given her

and as she declared to the heavens in frustrated surrender

I can not write these words the way they should be

I give up or it shall be the death of me

words came to her mind

 

say "I give up" as many times as you must

for weary days will come

but never swear it by the sky above

you must keep writing

as long as there are worded thoughts within

for though dreadful

it is possible to die a terribly painful death

from a heart ruptured by the force of the river

that was meant to flow through it

 

she had felt her heart near the burst of death before

there was wisdom in these words

setting her pen once again to the page

she scribbled and scrawled simple symbols

long ago decided upon by someone else

forming words

forming sentences

forming paragraphs

until the truth had been woven

in a flavored palette of subtle layers

only a few of which she could even recognize as her own

the rest was up to someone else...

the river for a time
had been tamed to a babbling brook

a sigh emitted from her lips

where wrinkles creased

betraying the cigarette habit of her youth

she was old

too old for this nonsense

but she had learned long ago

that it wasn’t really up to her

feeling relief from within and without

she rose and headed to the kitchen

to enjoy a light hearted cup of tea…

didn't

I didn't mean
to move in
get comfortable
settle down

I thought
I was just passing through

I didn't think
I had enough to say
for anyone to
want me to stay

he listened
and found he needed me
and I
felt the same way

never thought there was anyone
I could live with
say nothing
of someone I couldn't live without

didn't think about
2.5 kids
house payments
a yard

didn't mean
to move in
build a nest
lose myself

I thought I was just
passing through...