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An Early Spring The barred owl sang his last call

As the sun threw off her downy blanket

To begin a morning walk.

Nestled quietly all winter,

the first signs of stirring appeared.

Spring beauties whispered to trillium leaves

“It’s time to play.”

Jack in the Pulpit pierced the hard solid ground

saying “I’m ready to give a witness.”

Once rustling leaves had softened

Into a carpet for new friends gracing the path.

Sometimes spring can catch us by surprise in full bloom.

But after a long winter, we are ready and waiting.

We run and shed our winter coats at the first sign,

dancing and singing with new blossoms,

despite the warnings of a dogwood winter.

We, like the trout lily and Dutchman’s breeches

Celebrate spring early, so we don’t miss a thing.

 

The annual migration---

A rookery of ibis gather

in abaca trees along

the Ecuadorean highway.

They come south every year,

returning to these same trees.

With a cacophony of voices

they sing to passing pilgrims,

"it is good when brothers

and sisters dwell together in unity".

 

Every year a group of searchers

head south and make

their annual pilgrimage to the countryside

by that same highway.

They weave stories and songs

from common threads

found in working and roosting together.

Their cacophony of voices

preach joy and lament without words.

 

Like ibis and pilgrims,

we cross the ocean every now and then,

that divides our head and heart.

We make that migration,

And for awhile

believe love can heal the world.

Then sing in adoration for the ibis,

The pilgrim, and the journey itself.

 

Between Fleeting and Eternal

The space between fleeting and eternal lives

Around unexpected corners, near the turn of the seasons,

In the joyful wonder of the forest.

The background music of leafy trees sharing a melody

With a rushing river, for a chorus, grows louder in our ears.

The old mountain from where comes our strength is, for a moment,

dancing with a misty cloud that is on a dead run to beat the day.

The space between when the water takes a dive

from the mountain and before it lands, looks like a still life.

When we blink it will be over.

The sound will fade, the cloud disperse,

And the water rush towards another shore.

But for this brief, eternal moment, it is lovely.

 

Hanging by a thread’s thread

A wishbone of a limb

straddles a branch that grows

precariously over a deep valley.

On that limb, hanging by a thread,

a bromeliad has made a home

Leaving its roots dangling in mid air.

From one root, (attached

To the plant that is hanging

From the limb, that is balancing

On the tree growing on the edge),

a colony of moss holds an orchard.

Its hanging by a thread’s thread and yet,

The orchard blooms in silent

Praise and courage and determination.

It is more pressing sometimes to bloom

Than to worry about  the truth

that someday limb, bromeliad’s root, and

Orchard will return to the valley.