Arms of an Angel: Happy New Year!

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BELIEVE

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Christmas

porchweed (Custom)

 

Christmas

 

It’s another Christmas

My love

Doves and berry holly

Making us jolly by custom

Decorate and celebrate

Our

Illusions of hope

And

As always

From the eves of our old farmhouse

Hang icicles

As pale blue as your eyes

But

Not nearly as loving and warm.

They remind us that

Harm

Ever present

Is the zero sum game,

The bane of hope.

It will never be the same again

When

All beloved is treading

On that slippery slope of ending.

*

Nothing moves in the snowy cold

Except a gray fox

Boldly lopping and diving for voles

In the frozen North pasture.

Survival is an iffy

And

Dangerous game these days,

Warm and comforted inside

A log fire burning

We feel

All the same

Safe for the

Renewal,

The new life

The spring

Lying feral and fertile

Under the blue snow and white skies.

I wait for the climbing roses

Growing to be free

From the broken down gardens of the old order.

I see their wildness

Escaping

Overgrown

Over the log-chopped fencing

Running green

Into the marsh that has reclaimed

The orchard,

Finding its ancient passage back

To the Waloomsac River

And

Vaguely

Blesses us

In its insistence of the natural way.

HPIM0428.JPG

VTFarm

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MAGNIFICAT TE DEUM

 

Merry Christmas

With Much Love, Michael & Andie

https://adgitadiaries.com/2017/12/25/andie-christmas-12-25-2017/

 

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Nativity

steinbeck

 

The final scene in The Grapes of Wrath is one meant to instill some modicum of hope. The debilitated Rose of Sharon breastfeeds the starving man in the barn to sustain him. She gives what was meant for her baby to a complete stranger, an example of selfless sacrifice for the sake of community instead of individual well-being. Yet it took a deep personal loss, the delivery of a stillborn child, to enable Rose of Sharon to aid the man. She cares for the anonymous man with the same love as she would her child, eschewing her selfish individual concerns for a communal good.

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Sister Solstice

awindow

 

Sister Solstice

Down the hall

Late,

The light

Turned off,

The bedroom

Dissolves

In a night moon

Slanting through

The gated blinds.

There are different

Kinds of darkness.

Always is the wonder

If color lies

Where,

Imagination

Sees in shadow,

The forms of everything:

The bookcase here,

The dog on his bundle

The Tanka over the bed,

The chair over there.

And

The play of illusion,

When one wall seems infinite

Because a night light

Creates the world,

Lying just behind

A shimmering

Dimension.

In early dawn,

The moon is gone,

Lost in swirling fog—-

Which beads,

Drops of water

On the garden branches.

Fading forms

In mist

Link what

Comes behind,

To

What swiftly

Ghosts in front.

The ground,

Wet,

With mottled Bay leaves,

Playing gold

Among berry twigs,

Beyond the death of frost,

Still shows life

Where mice and rabbits are quiet.

Until,

The red hawks

And feral cats,

Swoop them out.

When Solstice arrives

All is ice,

As freeze contrives

To stop time

Resting,

If ever so quickly before dawn

In stillness.

Remembering,

I hang her four,

Pure-white-paper

Snowflakes,

Cut,

With concentrated

Precision

By tiny scissors,

On dark-green bows.

That

She is ever lost

In the freeze,

In the stillness,

In the very perfect

Point of Solstice,

is,

For her,

Never

Knowing Spring.

 

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Elgin Park

 

Tip o’ the hat to Kathleen

http://www.craftsmanshipmuseum.com/SmithMP.htm

 

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