Burning Bush Bounty

Plump unpeck’d cherries,
Apricots, strawberries;—
All ripe together
In summer weather,—
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye.
~Christina Rossetti
This spring the fruit ripens early,
reddening flames that leap up
from branches and leaves,
in some way ignited
like the burning bush
speaking to us
of holy ground.

This Muddy Earth


That whisper takes the voice
Of a Spirit, speaking to me,
Close, but invisible,
And throws me under a spell
At the kindling vision it brings;
And for a moment I rejoice,
And believe in transcendent things
That would make of this muddy earth
A spot for the splendid birth
Of everlasting lives,
Whereto no night arrives;
~Thomas Hardy from “In a Whispering Gallery” in Moments of Vision

If I listen carefully enough,
forgetting myself,
if I attend to His Voice,
the still small whisper that comes
as night fades away.
Light dawns kindling
over this sad world,
muddy though it be,
yet lit from above,
rejoicing, shouting:







A few yards from the old homestead foundation of
Partially buried cement chunks covered with sod;
An ancient cherry tree leans to the south,
Its northern half bare, the other half
Bearing century old promises.

Once orchard lifeblood of this farm
Its fruit picked for farmers’ market
An early dawn hour’s wagon ride to town;
Now breaking down, forgotten
Until this week of fruitful surrender.

Almost finished, but not quite,
Rooted deep for one more season;
Faithful cycle blooming forth
With budding life from gnarled knots
Yielding glorious from ancient branches.

Glistening amber globes with rosy sheen
Cling clustered on crooked lichened limbs
Gathered heaping in bowls of gold,
Ecstatic burst of savored perfection,
Fulfilling a promise of sweet abandon.