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.

A Bump

Two paths
met at crossroads.
“From just there in the village, I come,”
said one.
“And I from a land unknown,” the other.
So they walked side by side,
birdwatching, partners
in solidarity.
One crossed the other,
shoulders bumped, jostled.
Puddles from dark long-past storms
rippled into waves; paths parted,
veered wide for moments
for things done, and those yet left
undone.

But stormy shadows fade
as morning dawns and
vanquishes the fog.
Then paths may join again
to do the undone
or accomplish the unthinkable
as ripples give way to peace
and bubbles.