The human heart feels things
the eyes cannot see
and knows what the mind
Hearts, hearts, hearts
What great miracles they are–
Intentions that beat, unexplained parts
Of deepest desires, holding dreams and scars.
Hearts they say, “the size of your palms”
And racing away, in unfamiliar tracks,
Searching and chasing they travel
Ticking away even when the mind is at rest.
~Edited and adapted excerpt from a poem
by an Unknown Author
Love the Lord you God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. ~Deuteronomy 6:5 ✝
Hopes have precarious life. They are oft blighted, withered, snapped sheer off In vigorous growth and turned to rottenness.
“Why does everything that lives have to die?
So life would be precious, Asher. Something that is yours forever, is never precious.”
(a wounded spicebrush swallowtail resting in a tree / Julie Cook / 2015)
What is life but a precarious dance with death
A game of slight of hand
Hide and seek
Catch me if you can. . .
And yet it is a gift, sacredly given–
A gift to be. . .
Honored. . .
All life matters. . .
The born and the unborn
the young and the aged
the sick and the healthy
the bright and the dim
the tall and the small
the believer and the unbeliever
the Muslim the…
Summer makes a
silence after spring.
Tomorrow is the summer solstice, and with its coming begins the worst of another long, hot Texas summer. Thus the silence after spring hereabouts is markedly pronounced as the heat all but stifles the breath out of anything that talks, hums, or buzzes including and especially “moi.” That’s why when I have to be outside to care for and attempt to keep my garden’s “babies” alive, the heat presses hard enough against my lips that what utterances I can muster are mostly profane mutterings. So not only am I thankful to be leaving for Paris next week but also that we’ll be spending 16 days in far more pleasant climes.
…give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. ~ 1 Thessalonians 5:18 ✝
Poetry isn’t a profession,
it’s a way of life.
It’s an empty basket;
you put your life into it
and make something out of that.
A tisket, a tasket
A green and rosy basket.
The wind blew a thistle’s seed.
On the way to elsewhere.
It blew it,
it blew it,
The seed that made my basket.
(Basket-flower, also called American star thistle, is annual garden and wildflower native to southwestern North America. Resembling a spineless thistle, it has stout branching stems, and when the rose-coloured compact heads of disk flowers appear they are surrounded by fringed bracts, similar in appearance to a woven basket. Their seeds are borne in achene fruits and are wind-dispersed. These thistles are commonly planted in gardens to attract birds and butterflies.) I’d been watching this plant for months as I’d not seen one in my yard before, and so I wasn’t sure at first what it was. Then when it started putting on its baskets I knew it was an American thistle. And since the wind had blown it in, it was almost as if the blessing of blossoms had dropped from above. If you remember the nursery rhyme that started out like the first line of my silly little poem, it should sound more or less the same as the original if you sing along with the words. And I probably should ask Mary Oliver to forgive me for quoting her along with my feeble attempt at such.)
Thus the Lord God showed me, and behold there was a basket of summer fruit (or in my case, a basket thistle). ~Amos 8:1 ✝
“There are moments when we have real fun because, just for the moment, we don’t think about things and then–we remember–and the remembering is worse than thinking of it all the time would have been.”
― L.M. Montgomery
“What you remember saves you.”
― W.S. Merwin
(a collection of shells found at Orange Beach, Al / Julie Cook / 2015)
I have two small, rather faded and mostly brittle, sea shells riding
along on the console of my dash—actually along the outcropping for my car’s navigation screen.
The shells slide from one side to the other should I ever make a sudden turn or swerve.
They bother my husband.
He’s afraid they’re going to scratch the Nav’s screen.
Every time he gets in my car to ride with me, he always asks the same question:
“Why do you have those shells up there?” Followed by “They’re going to…