Poor is the Morning

Poor is the morning

as it breaks through darkness

opening its eyes to gathering light

not bound by space or time  

Poor is the morning

in failure and loss

caught not in grief or pain

but filtered by a pure and bright aspect

Poor is the morning

in disappointment and regret

no scent of dread on the breeze

no sorrow sprouting in horizontal rays

Poor is the morning

not in hard or difficult ways

but more like a youth

stepping out into the world for the first time

Poor is the morning

like young lovers

who care for nothing

but the gentle touch of their intended

Poor is the morning

like old lovers

whom time has taught that trinkets break

but love abides in unexpected ways

Poor is the morning

like the birds of the air

like the beasts of the wood

like the creatures of the sea

Poor is the morning

unhindered by material wealth 

like the blessed of the beatitude

so as to receive the day

Delayed

Dad would be pleased

we took the train

for an overdue visit

and a grand adventure

Up before dawn 

early departure 

excitement in the cool damp air

coffee on the platform

Gathering light and

growing hope

we could recapture the joy

of younger days

Delayed departure

ten minutes late

Optimism dampened 

with the first hint of stress

Thirty minutes then fifty gone 

we remembered 

what we didn’t like 

about riding the train

Feigning disdain

when I disembarked in D.C.

But that’s what Krug’s do

when engines change

We played a game

and guessed the speed

biking would be faster or walking

before our knees hurt

Further down the track 

a freight hit a car

another sixty minutes standing still

time for plan B

Two and a half hours 

unaccounted for

outside nothing seemed askew

inside time stopped

A whole day, a lifetime

side by side

Dad would be pleased 

we took the train

The Bluebird

Months between visits

then suddenly you’re here

exactly when you’re needed

small miracle of cheer

Brightest blue above

rusty rose below

your song sounds sort of sad to me

it’s warbled sweet and low

You landed on the swingset

your mate nearby

hunting for bugs in the tall grass

a spider worm or fly

Harbinger of joy

and good news too

are you happy as they say 

or are you really blue?

Who’s to guess your mission,

who’s to speak for you?

you are the color of your name

if not the feeling too

The Garden Under Snow

Beneath the snow lies hope and promise

of growing roots and bulging bulbs

waiting for the time to stretch

to light and life again.

Galanthus, crocus, narcissus, hellebore

These awaken and alert and impatient

Restless after deep, rejuvenating sleep

They poke through the icy blanket

Slower to wake, but longer to bloom

Anemone, iris, digitalis, primula

They lingering under the covers in the gathering light

Still sleepy, moving slowly, but on their way.

Slower still, those flowers

who stayed out late, dancing into the wee hours

Echinacea, coreopsis, sedum, dianthus

Waiting for warmth and cup of coffee to get them moving.

A community of perennials

Waiting for their season

to blossom and shine again in the sun

bringing color, beauty and fragrance to the neighborhood.

To every thing there is season

And a time for every purpose under heaven

The snow melts -- the end of the season of rest.

Now is the time to rise and dance and sing.

The Dance

You stood and took my hand 

and led me to the aisle between folding chairs.

We danced to a calliope with a funky bass

I had thought my dancing days were done.

I laughed when we danced again

as Superman and the Big Bad Wolf.

Rock n roll, spin and sway

Moved by the mischief in your deep blue eyes.

“God is not part of the dance,

God is the Dance,” someone said.

Life and light and love, intimacy and belonging.  

You took my hand and led me back into the Dance.