In the end

Oh sacred, final morning still,
Your frosted breath has chilled the air.
The hints of light above the hill
Evoke this humble, solemn prayer:
Enchant our hearts with unhurried pace,
Impede the rise of morning’s glow;
In mercy, allow a moment’s grace,
And pass the hours of this day slow.
Create a pause for whispers soft,
For those who need a last embrace,
For those who send their sighs aloft,
For those who love this weary face.
Oh sacred, final morning calm,
Delay the truth we know must come
Provide a modest healing balm,
For their sakes—slow, ‘til the day is done.

Bitter harvest

Too late a spring delayed the corn

that grows in summer’s heat;

too soon a frost has killed the crops

before they’re ripe with meat.

Too late a rain has bogged us down

in sinking, flooded fields;

too soon a gleaning of flesh too moist

has crushed the fragile yield.

Too wet to store, too much to dry

and all the work’s a waste:

The years of empty hope and toil

have left a bitter taste.

But changing fates is not a choice,

and there is no place to roam:

I’ll sow again, I’ll reap again,

because this is our home.

The pond

The pond is open now.  The cold

of winter’s grip no longer holds

the water’s gently pulsing scroll.

Surprised, I watch the spring unfold.

Surprised, because I feared the toll

of losing you would break the whole

and leave me lost in endless past,

beyond the touch that might console.

But now the darker months have passed

And spring’s return to life is fast –

My walking’s gained a stronger pace –

As if from death you’ve come at last.

The pond is now a sacred place

Where on the waves I find your face.

Click here to hear the poem read aloud.

For my mother