Moonbeams on Frost

The first frost lays down on the fall grass,

saying “hello!”…….. for it has been a while–

many moons have come and gone since they have shared company.

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November’s full moon rises —

as the moonbeams emerge–

they hit the frosted grass.

 

As the moonbeams and frost meet,

the frost begins dancing like flickering diamonds.

 

The sounds of the forest are muted as the frost and moonbeams dance,

old friends together in rhythm again announcing that

winter is lingering near.

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Beauty is everywhere, even in the night, even in the cold, even in the transition.

The seasons change, teaching us that even in the pain of change, we can dance.

Autumn Dusk

A southern autumn finally makes its way into the hickory, maple, and oak forests,

we’ve been waiting. Longing for it.

Yet, it has been lingering — barely ready to descend – – – until now.

It brings a soft glow that feels like a warm blanket when you’re cold,

you know how it feels, and you need it.

 

It calls to us softly – – – slow down, slow down – – – winter is coming.

It holds us after a deep and wide year,

A year that has torn our hearts open,

until we come face to face with love,

Are we going to love or are we just going to say we’re going to love?

There’s no time for false faces in autumn. (Except for maybe Halloween)

 

Is love alive or isn’t it?

Love is too big, too pervasive, too good to fake.

you know how it feels and you need it.

Is love alive or isn’t it?

 

 

The Kin-dom of God is like…

The Kin-dom of God is like a beloved waking up at 3am to call to make sure you’ve awakened for your alarm…

The Kin-dom of God is like a dear friend loving on your dogs…

The Kin-dom of God is like another dear friend bringing you a delicious dinner, unsolicited.

The Kin-dom of God is like a sunset so beautiful that the sky lingers with it, dancing between darkness and the bright orange colors as long as it can…

The Kin-dom of God is like a hug from your kid…

The Kin-dom of God is like a stranger on the way home from rugby practice, helping you for an hour to try to get into your locked car that’s still running…

The Kin-dom of God is like parents going out of their way to spend time with you…

The Kin-dom of God is like friends gardening together…

The Kin-dom of God is like people–busy, busy people– going out of their way to live into the commitments of love to you.

The Kin-dom of God is like these things, and so much more.

Thanks be to God.

Blue Hill Prayer

Here in the blue hills of Asheville,

I was anointed this morning by the needles of the White Pine,

falling upon the crest of my head.

The smell of Rosemary Geranium filled me.

The wind flowing through the trees, kissing them,

created a symphony of sound,

drawing me into its mountainous song.

My heart swelled with love for these connections with creation.

They are family to me.

Thanks be to You, God, the Creator of all.

 

Around the bonfire…

 

Around the bonfire, I find a circle that does not end,

a space where stories are told, but not claimed,

plenty of darkness to hide the pain that lingers,

a centerpiece of fire which cannot be controlled.

 

Around the bonfire, there is plenty of love,

and the laughter mingles with the fire’s crackles,

as the moon emerges shyly from its slumber,

everybody is dancing in the moonlight.

 

Around the bonfire, life slows down,

to a pace that allows some perspective,

the smell of fire saturates the busyness,

and cuts into the forgetfulness of abundant life.

 

 

 

 

When I Can’t Hear the Land

Moving to the city brings about
the bustle and excitement of
lights that never go out.

The guitars and horns and
trains whistle to and from
forming a chiming cacophony.

Noises and voices surround,
encouraging, soliciting,
keeping loneliness away.

The proximity of city life
to the desired destinations
of work and play is sustainable.

The fields of grass have yielded
fields of concrete that assist
travelers to their destinations.

And in the midst of the convenience,
and the concrete, I find,
I can no longer hear the land.

I can’t hear the tree change
when the seasons call it,
or the frog’s nightly lullaby.

I can’t smell the change of seasons,
or see the constellations put on
their nightly brilliance.

I can’t spend an hour with the sunset,
over a field of wheat and chaff,
this I can do no longer.

I can’t taste the invasive honeysuckle,
I don’t have memory of this land,
I can’t walk it with closed eyes.

For all the sounds of the city,
I trust the land is talking,
but I can’t hear it anymore.