After the Storm

You would never know by looking outside now that a severe storm came through here a few hours ago. Everything is so clear and green.

Winter has
put on
the pale green veil
of spring

Look at all that green grass!

You know spring is here when the pecan trees start to bud. They never get caught by a frost.

I got 2 hanging baskets of white impatiens last week. One of them is beautiful.


The other has been invaded by a nesting house wren: rather droopy, don't you think?

In the bottom right hand corner of this picture is the top of my sweet olive bush. Mom would have been proud to know that it's doing well and smelling so sweet.

Dusk

I am not a real fan of the transition from daylight savings time back to standard time. When it's dark, I want to be home in my house, not driving home from somewhere else. I do however like to be out when it's not quite dark.

M has band practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school until 5:00. That puts me driving home at dusk. She likes to call that time of day 'twilight' but it has always been dusk to me.

Dusk is the time when color starts to fade from the world. The trees turn black but the sky still has enough light to make the treeline visible. The world knows that night is coming but the sky doesn't want to admit it. Sometimes, I see something that I want to remember forever. I have to put it into words so I can go back there. This is the trip home yesterday.

DUSK

No stars;
but the moon
lifts her pale, cool face
above the feathered black treeline
to view the world below
from her place
above.

Shadows of His Presence

When my heart is a dry place
and my life like a weary land,
Spread the Shadow of Your great Rock over me.

When my heart longs for the Beloved
and my soul hungers for His fruit,
Splash the Shadow of Your sweet Tree about me.

When my heart fills with fear
and my soul can find no comfort,
Fold the Shadow of Your healing Wings around me.

When my heart is obedient
and my life brings glory to You,
I am held in the Shadow of Your almighty Hand.

Let me dwell in the Secret Place
of the Most High God
and abide under the Shadow
of the Almighty.

November 3, 1998
(based on Isaiah 32:2, Song of Songs 2:3,
Psalm 57:1 & Malachi 4:2, Isaiah 49:2-3, and Psalm 91:1)

I wrote this poem 10 years ago to go with a bible study I was going to teach on Sunday nights. It wasn't an original idea. I read about a poem based on these 4 shadows, but could never find the poem itself. So I wrote my own. Then I fleshed it out to teach over the course of a month. I'll post the study in pieces for the next week or so.

Too Tired

I have just been too tired to do much of anything here. Mom doesn't seem to be making any improvement: just the opposite. Bright spot: The home health care nurse should be here in about an hour to make an assessment. Mom's funky insurance has been the holdup. If we have to, we'll pay for this out of pocket until July 1, when it converts back to plain old Medicare.

I haven't been just sitting around doing nothing, though. I think my bathroom floor had been scrubbed about 7 times (enough said!) I have washed and folded and put away at least 2 or 3 loads of clothes every day. I even cleaned the ceiling fans in the living room, which was not easy since they are hanging from a 10 foot ceiling.

I went to the grocery store last night. Mr. H wanted to come with me, but I was so afraid to leave Mom with just the girls, even the eldest. She can't really walk that well, even with the walker.

I made 2 concessions last night that I really didn't want to make. 1) I stopped by the church and borrowed a wheel chair. 2) Mom slept on the couch last night instead of in a bed. I guess I didn't want to depend on the chair, but my back and fear of letting Mom fall pushed me in that direction, that and the fact that Dr. T thought it might be a good idea. The past few nights it has been really hard to get Mom out of the bed when she calls (2 or 3 times every night). She can't roll over and her arms get in the way, and I just couldn't do it any more. Actually, on the recliner of the couch last night, she didn't call at all. I actually slept pretty well. It's a good thing, too. Today has not gone well. We'll see what the nurse tells us.

I thought that was the nurse driving up, but it was the UPS man. He brought the gasket for the freezer. I know what Mr. H will be doing tonight. Hooray!

I remembered that I wrote this about Mom a long time ago. She was a dancer since she was a little girl, used to win competitions on the Coast.

Prima Ballerina

The stage,

the lights,

the costumes,

the orchestra:

all much larger than

but all far less important than

the dancer.

Human motion perfected.

The supreme union

of power and grace.

Space is the canvas

of her creation:

seeming to fly

yet caressing the stage

upon which she performs.

She is a dancer,

an artist,

a little girl's dream,

my mother.

July 24, 1980

The Popcorn Chronicles

I was looking back through some things I'd written the other day and found forgotten treasures. When I was in junior high, I started writing things down so that I'd have a way to remember them... remember how they felt... how I felt... later on. For some of those impressions, I used my teddy bear, Popcorn, to get the thought out of my head and onto the paper. A decade after he first became my muse, he was adopted by my eldest. Here are some of "The Popcorn Chronicles: A Bear's Coming of Age and Back Again"

Weather Report

Popcorn knows it will rain
when clouds cover the whole sky
so evenly you can't tell they're clouds.

*March 1980*


Music Lovers

Popcorn likes to listen
to the stereo with me.
He likes the music
that I like to listen to.
I can tell he likes it
by the smile
on his fuzzy white face.
I like to listen with him
because he doesn't interrupt.
He just sits quietly...
and listens with me

*March 1980*

Tree Watching

Popcorn likes the way
some trees blush
before they bare themselves.
Some just go pale
at the thought.
But he feels sorry
for those that simply
wither away
with no show at all...

*November 1983*

Kudzu

Popcorn has noticed,
Much to his amazement,
That kudzu can do to a forest,
In just a few decades,
What it takes water eons to do
To a mountain.

*August 1994*
(recalled from a trip to Vicksburg)


A New Beginning

I look at you now, beloved friend,
Recalling days of wisdom without end.
Once was Popcorn my playmate dear.
Now you're my child's "Mommy Bear."

Will you tell her tales of blushing trees
And the amazing power of kudzu seas?
Will you share the songs she likes to sing
And tell her about the rain that clouds bring?

Will you hear her heart's desire
Or how today she swung on a tire?
Will you listen as she says her prayers,
O, Popcorn mine, O, Mommy Bear?

*July 1998*

Trace of Home

This weekend my beloved and I got to go for a ride by ourselves. We left Brandon, aimed for the reservoir, and headed down the Trace.

The Natchez Trace, as it runs beside the reservoir, has been a sign of "home" to me since I was in college. Once we could see the water, I was home. It didn't matter that it would still be 40 minutes or so until we pulled into my driveway. That was over 25 years ago, and yet the feeling was the same this Sunday morning. I remembered that I had written a verse about it on a vacation trip home, when we lived in Virginia. I went looking for it this morning and had just about given up. Then right in front of me, exactly where I stopped scrolling through an old journal and was about to close the file, these words caught my eye: "Trace of Home. A drive beside the reservoir on the Natchez Trace on a bright and beautiful summer morning." That was it. I wrote this on September 5, 1984.

Trace of Home

No words will come to this sojourner's mind
that say what wants to be said
of acres and acres of mirror water
and diamond reflections of sunlight stars;
of cool quiet green and secret sunbeams
on mighty oak and slender pine.

I close my eyes and long for this place
though I have not yet left its loving embrace.