Here there isn’t much. Nothing but deep and wild stands of thick trees   and the lake.   Between the bird voices, cicadas. Crickets. Between the hum of nightfall, stars.   Sparkles over the dark water, fire or light of some warmth.   Here there isn’t much. A cool breeze on a high deck. The absence of clutter or places to go. And chores.   Here there is everything the soul desires. The clock stripped of its face and the only things not left behind.    ...

green and blue vista, a spring-drenched waterfall rushing toward me the golden-white clouds bowing ahead   and I run   sidewalk moving under my feet breath flowing in and out steady sky coming toward me   evening’s light glowing like gold through the clear waters of a creek inviting me onward   and then the pale-lipped honeysuckle— suddenly, and early in the season— comes upon me   its fragrance catching me off guard and I gulp forward seeking the scent pockets in the folds of the erratic wind its wall of white ruffles bounce softly alongside me for a brief moment   the...

I rain my prayers on this dry ground I trample the dust with my feet—feet prepared with peace, fierce peace that refuses to be broken by the rocks of drought   I drench these fallow fields with desperation I plough their difficult depths with determined trust   I guard the faith planted long ago I hold the light of changeless ageless truth to the soil   And no matter how long it takes for the promise to be fulfilled   I wait actively joyfully hopefully steadfast and sure until the parched ground bursts with unthinkable life    ...

welcome winter to the four corners of the yard pushing brown leaves against the fence   let it embrace the open-handed branches of the trees let it steal over the earth like early evening, drawing everyone indoors   welcome its cooling touch to the rooms at the back of the house facing sunset   feel it breathe through the old windows feel it hover in the doorways and in the backs of cabinets   welcome winter in the color of the stars against a moonless night   let it raise a still and quiet canopy over our restless souls.  ...

I miss the glass stars we hung in the kitchen window at Christmas time,   blue, orange, red, the big one in the middle with the candle.   Light of the old year gone, candlewick spent. Decorations and ornaments put away the last few days of December   stripping the old year bare, back to its unadorned state. The holidays are like dresses, fancy, glamorous, long and covering. Fireworks that illumine what—the year going or the one coming?   We won’t know until this December 31, when the same window stars have come and gone once more   and this year’s white wax is spent.  ...