March 20, 2019 - Spring

SPRING

You thought I would leave you

that I would go away forever

that I would leave your heart in an icy prison

that you would have to travel the road alone

and you forgot me.

But I told you . . .

. . . I told you . . .

I will always come back

I will always search for you

and I will always find you.

And if you were lying on the forest floor in fear

or the ocean’s shore in ruin

or an empty field in sorrow and pain and defeat

because you thought that death had won

I would find you.

I would take you into my hand

and bring you back to the light

as I told you . . .

. . . I told you . . .

I will never leave you

and I will always come for you

because you are mine.

 

March 6, 2019 - Armored

The pines, so bristly and sharp and pointy in the summer, are suddenly smooth and plump and full of life in the winter.  We so easily pass them by in the warmer weather as our eyes search for the green bounty, but in the cold weather, our eyes linger.  The needles reflect the winter sun, growing stronger now every day.  Together they create a shimmering green carpet in the trees.

Armored.

How is it that they alone among the trees can show such signs of life while everything around them is silent and grey?  How is it that they can laugh at the treacherous ice and the mountains of snow while their brethren have been beaten and laid low?  How do they stay alive in the unforgiving season of death, and what can they teach us?

Shining, shimmering green tresses waving gently as palm trees on a tropical beach, but submerged instead in a frozen and icy gale.  The Queen of Winter, fearless as the tiny porcupine who walks slowly by the starving lion, undaunted and unconcerned and unafraid.  Armored to the teeth, a snail’s pace is a luxury they can afford.