My
World
Who feeds the
wren and mourning dove
when time leads me astray?
Who waters all the universe
and sweeps the dust
away?
Who orchestrates the harmony
in skies amidst a storm;
engraving
colors vividly
along the Eastern shore?
Whose handkerchief will gather tears
as
weeping willow strands?
Who fashions every leaf and cluster
traveling on the wind?
Who rings
the bell of time
to sound of his amazing grace?
I lift my pen in praise for
God
has smiled upon my face.
Kathleen Vibbert
Indiana
Mustard
Seed
It was small, yet everything
a drop of hope in pouring rain
I only pray that it will bring
a joy to every living thing.
It trails around my forest wall
to grow as thriving ivy green,
from small beginnings sends a call
there is abundance to be seen.
In every root, surviving frost
you find you have another chance
to know that life is never lost
it only changes circumstance.
It is the spice in every jar,
the scent of pine from winter trees
a shining point on every star,
unfiltered sand before the seas.
Once thought as insignificant,
I tossed it to the wind.
The finest gift I ever spent
returned to me, again.
Snow Clouds
Above the oak and maple tree,
an elegance appears
as landscape bows
to royalty
and wintertime is here.
Snow clouds touch a withered field
and trails where pinecones hide.
Falling
memories soon reveal
a beautiful countryside.
The earth accepts her ivory crown
the season can begin.
Tonight
I lay my burdens down,
it's snowing once again.
Willow Tree
Returning
down a path once taken
One downtrodden in my dreams
I feel my senses soon awaken
Towering over fields and streams
There
stands in timeless splendor
My weeping willow tree
To beauty I surrender
Drawn to grace and symmetry
Regarding
time and many years
It's stature never failing
From heaven seeking drop of tears
On strands of green prevailing
Beneath
this parasol of green
A glimpse of time is caught
For substance draws me forth to lean
Upon this haven I have sought
Till
twilight when the air is still
I'll rest here for a time
My
dreams someday to be fulfilled
And written down in rhyme
Evergreen
You
are perpetual in your beauty,
for you decorate my soul
Enduring every season, you bring
renewal to my storms, and hope
from every renaissance
In the length of my solstice, you
are unfading in your
faithfulness
Though I face portals, you
lead me on to brave a thousand years!
When
harbors seem distant, you renew
upon
the first dew of spring, and
yet you never ceased to live
Through every vestige of life, every
season I watch in breathless
anticipation of a living wreath
In
peace you are still, yet you move
in grace upon the wind
and your scent refreshes my dry spirit
You are everlasting in your sustenance,
unyielding to heaviness.
You
are perennial, you are more
constant than change,
you are my
evergreen.
Before
I Let the World Back In
Before I let the world back in,
let me be safe and warm.
Let me envelope this prelude.
I still have
unshared memories,
each one uncovered.
I want to live, move and have my being.
I want metaphor to transform
reality
but my words sometimes miss the page.
Nature, the sea and the sky
display verse sated in color!
Snowdrops
are zigzag cutouts rambling
along corridors across my window.
Sunbeams are spiritual ribbons that heal.
Trees
become parasols-
grieving spring rain and breathing when I cannot.
Waves move swans single-file and the tide
is
a flutter pulled by the moon.
Sandcastles cry perpetually as
fantasy clings to salt and earth.
Gardens
give form and substance to
height and breadth filling my senses.
Winds turn the pages of my life.
Chapters
pass quickly giving sorrow
and yes, joy.
I wonder why stones remain unmoved.
I wonder why the same sun
that melts the ice
also hardens the clay.
I wonder why the horizon imprints the skyline
and yet indelible
visions seem far removed.
Before I let the world back in,
I want some answers.
Because I will no longer
write
angst, although there was a time for that,
I will let others do it.
I will no longer weep lines
that
sustain a grand theme
through my own tears.
My substance does contain
breadth and height and my senses
are
very much connected.
Trees no longer stand bare before me,
but clothed
in the season of my choosing.
I
can move stones because
I have crushed them
and the peace that fills
me now is truth brought
into consciousness.
My peace is on canvas,
a painting that I
faded into, while not
losing myself in the process.
That,
my friend, is a miracle.
As
A Child
As a child, sitting under the walnut tree,
I wanted tomatoes but
Mother said, "Tomatoes won't grow near
the walnut tree."
But there, I spread sugar for the ants, curled up
among butterflies,
held tea with fairies,
and
squinted to chart the stars.
I wore dress shoes,
lace socks that overlapped,
my brother's old t-shirt,
and
denim pants.
I'd watch the sparrow and robin
building their nests for spring
and leave clothesline string
for them,
smiling as they flew away with it.
My prized possessions were a red wagon, a
teddy bear whose nose
dangled and
a bride doll, Emma Elizabeth.
One
day I cut her hair and cried
because it never grew back.
Zebo, my Boston Terrier, went blind
but somehow everything
seemed
clear there,
by the tree where
tomatoes wouldn't grow.
Something remained
from that time;
a
confidence that comes
with confronting yourself.
In returning,
the walnut tree is gone
only a garden of
tomatoes remain.
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