Perspective

rudbeckia

Sometimes the weather

is more what you choose to see

than what can be felt

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Far From the Tree

appleblossomkeyhole.jpg

 

When Apple first fell

from the Tree, she bobbed

along on her sea

of forgetfulness,

oblivious to

the bruises on her

backside, pockets of

pus hidden by a

polished red skin. She

named her world Stunning,

and made plans to suit.

.

Tucked in the shadow

of those gnarled roots, her

gnarled senses labelled

sickly vapours ‘air’,

decomposition

‘bed’, insect-breeding

swamp ‘home’. Belonging

lulled feelings into

a caricature

of the love she read

about in novels.

.

But the day she rolled

outside canopy

limits, beyond the

reach of Eden’s bite,

sun-seared retinas

peeled the picture bare –

twisted trunk and sour

fruit and warped world-view

became as glaring

as raw contusions.

.

Now she rolls, rolls, rolls,

far from the madding

shroud, far from the reach

of branches carved like

talons from deformed,

wormy wood. Far from

the Tree, in a patch

of pure light on grass

greener than life, she

sows a single seed.

 

 

A Lesser God

sunsetscene.jpg

Unless the details of this life,

those structures of the things I see,

are faded by Your Glory-light,

take back-seat to Your Majesty,

my eyes will always think they’re true

and fool my senses, charm my mind;

thus taught, my vision makes of You

a lesser god of lowly kind.

Night-Time Gazing

night-time pine

Night-time gazing overhead

puts daily turmoil into place,

inky depths on silken thread

define the infinite of space;

and while my tears in silence fall,

I am but one on cosmic plane;

galaxies count such sorrows small –

I am but single link in chain.

A Glimpse of Blue

If I remain stiff-necked,

I only see snow;

but if marrow and joint will bend,

crane,

flex crown,

tilt eyes to skies,

I might catch a glimpse of blue…

*

For more on this topic, visit Growing with God in the Garden

From Where I Sit

From where I sit, above the  earth,

I see the way the threads weave through

the tapestry; each knot and stitch

is planted with a plan in view.

When down below, my eyes don’t sense

the way the Artist plots and schemes;

the colours clash, the pattern fights

against itself in rowdy seams.

But if I lift my gaze aloft,

appraise the whole from ladder height,

my heart is thrilled to see the plan

that weaves me in, with threads of light.

Harvest Moon

Harvest moon, you nod and wink

at farmers working hard below

to gather in what’s on the brink

of being smothered by the snow.

What insects we must look to you,

who wisely rule the sky above;

remind our hearts that earthly views

are trumped by those whose rays are love.