The storm is raging
The lightening streaks the sky
When the wind blows down
And the trees fly out of the way
When the water races forth to the sea
And crashes back on to the rocks
We are told to find the silver lining.
But what about the lining of gold…
The weathered boards of barns
that have withstood the wind,
…waiting for another harvest,
… another planting.
But tilted now, shifted,
having been pushed for so long,
…the roofs settling,
…into their feet.
Their story told,
and work long finished,
…they become the seed,
…to imagine what has been.
quiet bird bright morn
dark before dawn, new day here
no surprise, it’s time
March is so fickle and uncommitted. I wrote this a couple of years ago and it most certainly applies to our midwestern week.
Sifting snow in the
Blizzard wind in the
Cold wind blowing
Blizzard singing in the
We shoveled snow all day and I wondered how we will do it when we’re eighty.
Eighty is not old unless you’re shoveling snow. Last night I went for a walk in the
blizzard over to the river. All I could hear was the wind until I came to the pine trees.
They made a beautiful musical tone. I’d never heard it before. The snow was “sifting”
off of the rooftops. It was very beautiful. I’m glad I walked.