If naked eye could split the light

into prismatic rays,

or filter out pollution’s glare

and see through living’s haze,

mind could tally up the ifs,

the wherefores and the whys –

and not need a prescription drawn

to make sense of good-byes.

Soul Runs Empty

empty bird feeder

Soul runs empty,

pants for bread,

craves attachment,

must be fed;

convention’s trough

won’t satisfy –

O Christmas Son,

will you supply?

Born and laid

in manger hay,

feed our souls

this Christmas Day.


For more on this topic, visit  Growing With God in my Garden

You Could Be Home

frozen planter

Are you a nevermore,

or a not yet?

A foreign shore,

or a safe bet?

Who you could be

is not written in stone;

shovel the snow,

and you could be home.