As the Wheel Turns

yellow aspen (1)


And the colour wheel cranks out

its liturgy – opposites 

make the best bedfellows,

draw out the richest blooming.


So too this heart, when double

crushed, rises atmospheric

to negate the blow. So too 

this spirit, pinned to velvet

specimen case, dead carcass

to be pitied, inspected,

finds truest freedom within

its prison walls, flying high

above those who would take it

captive, coerce dignity,

boxing it in mere metal

and glass. Deepest pain reflects

truest beauty, once redeemed.


And the colour wheel cranks out

its curriculum – bluest 

skies display the purest gold.


The Loom

sunset Sask Landing


With shuddering of shuttle,

the warp meets the weft – Autumn’s

art in sunset tapestry.


Rhythmic cycle weaves copper

to crimson, scarlet to gold,

pattern passed down from ancient


hands. Loose threads are expertly

battened, strung between starry-

crisp nights and harvest-filled days


building texture as leaves (and

cloth) are shed, Autumn’s nimble

fingers flying to keep up.





Small progress, to be sure,

overlooked by all casual observers,

but don’t miss its significance. It is

profundity in prose,

a missive spelling out

constitutional reform,

 emancipation of slaves. It is

a palette of life to starving artists,

Monet painting van Gogh

in the round.

A Master Chef’s confection

to a parched refugee,

it teases taste buds

and tastes of freedom. It is

story choreographed,

bringing tears unbidden in

 a dark theater,

goosebumps on arms

beneath evening dress.

Beethoven’s ears opening to

Moonlight Sonata

for the first time

and dancing with the pulse of

a thousand known notes

are contained in its single song.

Galaxies are formed in its confinement,

hope carved in foliar flare;

life lives here.

See it


new eyes.

Taste it.

Feel it in the way your chest moves in and out,

how your brow contracts in the thinking.

Small progress, to be sure –

but don’t .





For a devotional on this theme, visit Growing with God in my Garden



Your words paint time still –

 sun forgets to race,

 earth pauses mid-stride,

moon holds her longest note,

vibrato kissing stars.

Heart hibernates,

pulse slows;

in this moment,

I am Mona Lisa,

caught in secret smile.

I am  waterlily,

wetting Monet’s daubed brush.

I am


and shadow

and tone

and hue,

whispers under covers

and smuggled glances;



found out,

captured by lens,

immortalized by sonnet.