Elegance of
a simple thank you
wrapped in sincerity
is a flower
offered by a child.
A gracious nod
for a job well done.
An intentioned act
of kindness.
A gift from
one heart to another.
greater than two small words.
Treat this elegant gift with care for gratitude strengthens
the world between two hearts.
“Gratitude bestows reverence…..changing forever
how we experience life and the world”
~ John Milton
Age, quite simply,
is but a number.
A number I quite approve of,
like the number on a calendar,
on a list,
telephone numbers,
street numbers and
anything counts.
We do count our days,
the weeks that pass,
the years that add up but ~
we sometimes fail to add up
the experiences of each of those days.
Most are not momentous,
some bring stunning joy,
some deep sorrows,
many days just ordinary but all
are the warp and weft of life
Age, quite simply, is but a number.
The beauty of age is the fabric
that has been woven for good or ill.
“Weave beautifully your small thread in the grand tapestry.”
~ Gordon B. Hinckley
(1910 - 2008)
When I walked in the sun this afternoon, I felt it’s heated warmth
and sought the filtered shade of even the thinnest branch. The
shade of a building, a large rectangle that spilled onto the
street, was an improvement,
but to cross walk on the pavement
there was not even a sliver of shade.
A warm wind ruffled my hair and
cooled my skin. Riding the bus in air-conditioned comfort
my quick errand was accomplished.
Returning home, I repeated the dance of
seeking shade that ended with a cold drink of water.
“Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.”
~ Russell Baker, writer
In the quiet of the evening
it is possible to conjure up
all manner of
troubles and worries
just as
it is possible to conjure up
all manner of blessings and joys
To choose which of these is good,
is seldom difficult
when we set such a choice in front of us.
“I was quiet, but I was not blind.”
~ Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
Where is the poetry in today?
A hot, muggy day filled with banking,
groceries, pet supplies,
hair care needs,
bus rides to and fro.
to be greeted by the cheerful bank teller; to see students and grandmothers; parents with their children or wee ones in strollers; moving around the city,
it is too easy for me to be
critical of how people walk or talk;
picking at the minutia flowing all around me; a Babel of languages rippling through the hot afternoon.
to feel the kindness of the young man
who called out from his bicycle: “Be careful”
when I crossed the street;
seeing the tiredness on the face
of the young mother next to me on the bus,
to hear the laughing chatter of teenagers
in their last days of summer before school.
This is the poetry of the city.
“Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.”
~ Charles Bukowski, poet, novelist, writer
(1920 - 1994)
In spring, give me a church
made entirely of tender green leaves and blossoms
of pink and white;
grey-white blankets of
cloud let the land drink deep
while winds threaten to strip the trees of their beauty
geese raucously announce their homecoming,
settling on lakes and rivers to grow their flocks.
Yet it is a gentle, growing season ~ I stay outside
on my veranda to watch and listen
as spring wakens us all.
“Is the spring coming?” He said. “What is it like?”
“It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine…”
~ Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Give me a church made entirely of ….. from the poem Sea Church by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
*Author’s note: and after winter comes spring…….
And in winter
give me a church made entirely of
crystalline ice and snow while I bundle
in fleece and down coats
to feel the sting and burn
of cold on my cheeks.
To flop in the snow
to sculpt snow angels
To push against a fierce wind
to get to the rink only to
hear the crisp and slice
of skates on freshly flooded ice
To catch snowflakes on my tongue
And then to run into the warmth
of my mother’s kitchen for
hot chocolate and cinnamon toast.
“There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable.”
~ Martha Ostenso, novelist
(1900 ~ 1963)
Give me a church made entirely of ….. from the poem Sea Church by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
*Author's note: A wintery reprieve from the heat of summer!
Give me a church made entirely of prairie grasses with
wheat fields of green,
flax fields of purple blue,
mustard fields of yellow.
In that church under
the broad blue sky
I can see forever.
Should a storm come upon me, I can see billowing, bubbling thunder clouds rise up over the horizon.
Should lightening fork
to the ground or
spread a sheet over
slate grey clouds
I can run in to the shelter of
my childhood verandah.
Then I can still be part of that
church that is the world of the prairies.
“She liked the enormous sky and the winds, and the land that you
couldn’t see to the end of. Everything was so free and big and splendid.”
~ Laura Ingalls Wilder,
From Little House on the Prairie
“Give me a church made entirely of ….."
~ from the poem Sea Church by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
