Drips grey like a leaky fountain pen
Spills battleship, concrete, slate and
Every shade in between
Blanketing the tops of trees, no leaves
Vulnerable, branches bear, shaking at the root
In the frigid air
Suspended in a cavernous sky
The canvas wide and bleak
Sees past the bullying mid-winter blues
Keeps a secret
Hides it in the vortex of a
Longing and desire
Laid to rest and wait
Patient in her knowing that the future is redeemable
There is hope
Oh what restless souls we are
Missing the beauty buried in the
Cold and lonely for new growth
But January says
I am the doorway through which you step
From cold and void
To feasts and merriment
Hold on fast in dormant days
And know the season
Of rejoicing lies this way.
Help us see
The beauty that is in the days
So cold and gray, seeming barren
Nestled in a quiet snowy wait
Point us to the future where
Color spills out new birth like grace
On the other side of
Colored but for a moment
In endless shades of grey.
Joining friends Sandra and Deidra
Release your words, let them loose, set then free, let them soothe a soul in need
Place your words on the wings of the dove and let them soar to a world which struggles to breathe
Give your words, room to fly, to land on the threshold of the ones who ache, afflicted, in pain
Let your words be free to go, fall soft and gentle onto a soul, washing gentle encouragement over hurting man, woman
Let your words, still wet with ink leave the well of your heart, touched first by the spirit of God
And let them truly soar.
The Spirit of God is arousing us within
Romans 8 – The Message
Praying for opportunities to speak words of encouragement and tenderness to one to the left and one to the right, all weekend long. May your weekend be peaceful, inspired by the gentle spirit of God, and open to touch another in need of transforming words from a heart that knows Him.
Joining Sandra Heska King for Still Saturday and Deidra for The Sunday Community
Sometimes the dull, dropped, dark dank, leaves of fall
Lie broken under foot,
Busted like dry bones crackle.
The path through canopy of trees,
The wood’s own trail of life
Seems paved with aged confetti,
Strewn from spring’s gay party on the path.
The leaves the same, the framing changed.
It is both and it is nature’s way,
A cycle of seasons
Under foot and heavenward
And all around.
The woods tell stories, whispered
Stories. Listen and
Be still sweet soul,
In all and know that He is
While you wonder,
While you wander,
And while you still sit
In weathered chair, of life,
Be still sweet one
Joining Deidra for her lovely Sunday Community.