As Winter

On the day of your birth a single sound pierced Winter;
your life’s first cry melted his heart like a flame.
Snow-covered hills arouse, a-pulse, and shiver;
the Sun also answers and stretches her arms to exclaim:

“Awake, O barren fields, from your frosty death!
Let frigid earth soften to form a flower’s cradle
warmed by dancing rays on the soil. Draw breath,
lily and rose; blossom and beautify April.”

How could I know that song as first it was sung
or what effect it had upon our world
twenty-one years past, five thousand miles flung,
when still my own days had but barely unfurled?

Surely it happened just so—to me seems clear,
for as Winter so I, whenever your voice I hear.

Pathways

Providence once was a highway, paved;
well marked by signs
and arrows to give
direction.

It became at length a winding road
through a meadow flowered;
the moments bright but
destinations unknown.

Yesterday it was rocky path
to a mountain’s peak
that bled my feet
as You led by the way.

Did these paths lead to a cliff?
A dead end of sorts
that bids me:
“Trust, child; faith,
And leap!”

Wool and Flax

Two strands we were: one wool, one flax,
mismatched but woven, entwined,
one thread.
Fibers twisted together by providence,
one small patch forming
on the Maker’s tapestry.  Who knows
where threads may lead
or what delicate patterns He may design?
Though strands divide and loop apart,
decorations prepared for plans unknown,
might they join once more?
His hands weave to and fro
and work our loom
of yesterday and today.
Tomorrow, perhaps, we converge again
if we cut not the thread with a knife
of “farewell.”

John and Abigail

With a wife like Abigail . . . no wonder John Adams was such a great man.