Spilling in, texturized by net curtains from another era,

Light falls into the doorways which make a home warm and safe.

How many times has a handle been turned,

By little hands, old hands, reached for but not gained.

 

These are my thoughts as the past streams into our future.

Hand placed gently as details of the scene are whispered,

With a kind, soothing and inquisitive voice.

Borne only of love and care,

Stooping to engage with the wonder of an animal in its stall,

On this winter day.
Another fleeting moment of grateful thanksgiving.

 

 

Choices abound,

Where the smallest adjustment can result in …

The greatest correction of course,

Especially when relying on radar,

Or some other unseen guidance system.

 

When discernment is everything.

Inside each of us has their place,

Their role, reliant on the other, in a very special way.

Creating a bond, which though strong,

Excludes others for the duration of the voyage.

 

Avoiding any friendly engagement with the outside world.

 

Those long, color filled shadows, remind me of a box of crayons,

Of mixing paint in art class quickly,

Adding too much water, making the colors spill into each other,

Like those in the park today.

 

Beneath the color are lives, reflecting in the painting they cannot see.

Roots, streaming upwards,

Getting stronger by the moment,

As a connection becomes more obvious,

How long have I been in this wrong-heading thinking?

 

When I thought because I am unique, I came from a different source.

 

 

The leaves are down,
In readiness for winter,
Creating a carpet of crackling, slippery, soon to be mulch,
Abstract pattern on the floor of the woods,
As the trees hunker down.

For a long New England winter.

 

The ship was once perfect,

Ready, an unshining hulk of power,

Designed to defend the weak and oppressed,

Until eventually put to rest in a quiet harbor,

Doors open to all who remembered its service when needed.

 

Today, the rust seeps through the paint designed to cover the flaws,

Crying the soft, dry tears of remorse, belying the hidden strength which endures.

Sometimes man reaches out and perhaps through an act of God,

He makes something which blends with nature,

In a way not easily describable,

But evident all the same.

 

Today, I will notice such happy incidents.

In Remains of the Day,

A life can be lived out in servanthood,

But not unhappiness.

 

For the real servant works with a happy heart,

And will rest peacefully at sunset.