Musical Spring

Winter is dead

 it still leaves traces 

scattered here and there

the occasional pile of stubborn snow

the frost in the morning 

but these are mere glimpses

and memories of what has passed.

And as things being to come alive

the song of life can be heard 

in the distance if you listen closely enough

He is singing everything into life again 

as we stare up at a vast blue sky

There are notes of it on the wind

warm bright notes 

that thaw our bones and hearts

until they beat together

with the chirping of the birds

and the swaying of tree boughs

fresh with buds.

The time of singing has come again

and we rejoice at the sights 

of the work of His hands.

Life radiates from Him

like a glorious tune

and who can resist this song? 

Worn Hands

Her face was wrinkled
like the worn leather
on the cover of her Bible.
With craigs formed
from frowns and smiles,
tears of pain,
sorrow, and joy.
At the end
she was like an infant again
forgetting how to breathe;
taking her naps
in the afternoon sun.
Until one day she went down
and never awoke again.
Slipped away in sleep.
One breath in this world
the next breath in the new one.
While those that remain
try to remember better days
when she smiled
and squeezed their hands
baked and laughed.
She worked with her hands
ploughing through life,
kneading dough for bread
kneading soil for flowers
kneading her own heart
until it resembled the one she loved most.
Her hands were as worn as her face
they had held babies, then children,
rough hands of men, husband and sons
and then babies, children
teenagers adults.
It was then that those worn hands
were ready to let go. 

Nith

It was the day after Christmas
when he slipped out of his house
nobody saw
nobody saw him
little boy in his boots
without cap without coat
he was only five
through the fields
no one stopped
no one saw
through the trees
he was known to wander
and so he did
he did he did
down to the river nith
and he struggled
in its icy depths
it was so cold, cold indeed
they searched and searched
oh the tragedy
little boy lost
he was only five, only five
now he's gone
they search on. 

February First

The snow is falling fast
in tiny delicate flakes
from the cold grey sky
as I settle into my desk
on a worn Saturday morning
while my frozen milk
thaws in the sink.
I have succumbed to acceptance
of winter
and of my life thus far.

Cut up

You must have thought
that I was made of lead;
thought that my skin was
thick leather,
worn by weathering storms
so much stronger
than any you could conjure.
You thought you could
dash me against the sharp
cliffs of the shore,
and I would not bleed.
You thought my armor
would protect me from
the blade of your knife
as you pushed it into my stomach.
You ought to know
that this strength is just a rouse;
I am not made of lead
or impenetrable leather;
more like wood that has been
worn away by the storms past.
I am easily cut by rocks and blades
I merely retreat to lick my wounds
in solitude.
And yet you cannot understand
why I walk with a limp,
why I wince in pain;
are you so blind?

Icy

The snow falls again
in thick clusters
of delicate flakes
elegantly painting
the limbs of trees
as I stand in
the kitchen
in the grey
afternoon light
wondering if
the warmth
will ever come back
to my breath.