I Have An Antique Rose

I have an antique rose; She waits patiently for me. When I draw nigh with pruning shears, She utters not a plea. Her thorny branches twine in knots, They tangle by degrees. Yet when I start to thin them out, She neither fights nor flees. She stands in proud defiance, An indomitable foe; It’s ne’er

My Lilacs

I do not— when my feet at long last find Jordan’s verdant banks, in those fleetly fading moments between my final breaths, before the curtain falls upon my mortally shuffled coil— I do not want to there remember or know any reason to regret that I neglected or did not otherwise seize even a single

Dump Trip Saturday

Dump Trip Saturday is sacred among Saturdays. It stands alone unto itself, unique and holy. Its rites and rituals are solitary and serene; their execution is communal (and clamorous!). . Dump Trip Saturday is always borne from Saturdays past: A pile of scraps after a completed project, appliances failed beyond repair, a neglected playhouse, a

To the Forgotten Lady

Every year,
at about this time…
…it happens that
I beg forgiveness of a tree

Every Branch That Does Bear Fruit

Pruning whispers a metaphor every spring, but this year it seemed to grab me by the face and look me directly in the eyes.

Up to the Light

My younger daughter spent a considerable amount of time (I am told) writing this note for me the other day. She was so obviously pleased with herself and her tiny correspondence that she met me at the front door and wriggled like Christmas morning as she told me where in the house to find the note

Willings

I. A man stores away his heavy winter gear in the second week of March. “I’ve no need of these ‘til November at least. Spring is here at last.” . He locks away down linings and microfleece, with reasons to believe: a skunk was in the trash last night and he spied a robin on

Another Man’s List

Another man’s list: impressed by wet boots into the pavement of a parking deck on a Tuesday. The author, by now, unseen and unknown, shuffled off the coil. His orders since discarded in the marching– a fleeting, transient monument to his duty. . The words are simple, cryptic, and pragmatic. They describe a morning errand,

Flagstones

It can hardly but sober a man to consider how he will be remembered after he at last shuffles off this mortal coil. Will he, in that dim light of dusk on Jordan’s bank, depart in the assurance that he done all, lived all, loved all that he could? Will he, when his works become manifest on that Day and are tested by fire, have anything to show for that which he toiled under the sun? Did he, as Moses prayed, number his days aright?

Out In the Harbor

There, out in the harbor, with her back to the madding, stands the old noble Lady with her torch and her crown. Just the sight of her back, and her book, and her beacon still thrills me the most on my way into town. . She stands on her island, stands for Hope and for