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WINTER MORNING |
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The
earth is graced with poetry
composed of snowflakes as we slept; It is the artistry of God, a paean for creativeness. What was an eyesore to behold is now challenge to discern; Might it be angels resting there wearied from their night's sojourn? And the fenceposts peaked in purest caps brushed by an acolytic wind -- might they be souls stirred to delight by the whisperings of Him? He perceived a kinder world, and with this vision he unleashed a message for humanity while we were fast asleep. |
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THE
LABORER
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A laborer
stood at my door one day eager to sell
the wood he'd cut and chopped himself. I had answered the door unwillingly, not feeling well. He'd been here three weeks ago and I'd turned him away, explaining that I had two ricks stacked in my shed. What was he doing here again? I said no I think I have enough, all the while watching despair fall upon him. His face was creased with cares, as if he'd weathered many trials. He hung on the door limp, listless, like a child who'd asked for candy and been turned down. So I asked how much, and got a bargain when he smiled. |
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CABIN FEVER |
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January
is a restless time
of fussing and fidgeting: about the snow, about the cold, about nothing happening. It's a time for hibernation locked up in winter's lair, that gives vent to cabin fever -- a need to get some air! But snow is packed around the house, a foe, staring in white content; settling down for who knows how long, while I stare back at it. |
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