Alas, winter chill, you cold-hearted soul; you interrupt my intake of reverie. In sweet, sweet sorrow I clip the last blooms of fall -- wildflowers glowing in fuchsia, crimson, burgundy and linen. This daybreak, just past the first frost, the browning of burn now presses their edges. alas, valiance on display until the very last, but for one. one One set of glowing petals peeks from below, having crept around and under; its parent stem bent and broken to the ground, yet, this one has found its way to shine upward. … diminutive, brilliant, petite and perfect. Why am I surprised this vine has bloomed so, has outlasted its fellows there in its poverty and low estate? Why? In its meekness Its humility Its hardship Its fortitude All of these and beauty, too. Why, did I presuppose? its offering would be less, its contribution trivial, overlookable pitiable weak. Look beyond! the bridal bouquet awaits its day at the altar, its fulfillment in the one counted out, now counted upon. there. now
I’m jogging around a small, oval 3-lane track at the gym,
so slowly, well, okay walking,
in the inside lane —
the one nearest the railing where you can look down on
three floors of people beating themselves up
to try to stave off age, time, years of inattention and just plain sluggishness —
and I see a group of young adults with rags,
wiping, wiping, wiping the railing.
No matter that the one in front has just wiped this spot,
they will wipe it again
and move onto the next
handle, next window, next wall, next surface,
at the instruction of the young woman who calls encouragement and instructions.
“Thank goodness I’m not like these,” I think.
They are not thinking that of me,
but perhaps they should be.
Thank you, Lord, for the body I have that does all it can which is more than some and less than others. Help me live in it today in a way that is pleasing to both of us. Amen.