WINTER VISION

A gray winter sky releases gentle snowflakes,
silence arriving on the edge of Sunday morning.
Sitting in my old red chair, I consider the fire
burning without, burning within.

The brush of an angel’s wings against my face
recalls the holy touch of one no longer near.
Closing my eyes, I deeply drink the vision
living well, dying whole.

Purple sunset celebrates the freely given day,
I stutter step as I near the marble sentinel,
unsure if a mere kiss will be enough to pay my fare
home , forever home.

(poem inspired by photograph taken by
and used with kind permission of Christine Valters Paintner.

Join her Poetry Party every other Monday at www.abbeyofthearts.com.)

TRIBAL FIRE IN THE WOODS

A tribal fire welcomes us to this quiet
place, among the trees, winter leaves
cushion our walk together into the bright
night of our prayer and discernment.

I take a seat, while you return to the holy
circle, where songs and drums and intentions
are heard by the One and all; where heartfelt
breaths are exchanged among brothers.

In the woods a dark chapel appears before
my eyes, a darker door inviting me to enter.
I choose to sit and wait while nature’s stained
glass window of the Virgin forms before my eyes.

Framed by beauty and soft evergreen needles,
the path before me is clear and soft, so unlike
the road that brought me here. I rest awhile in
awe of all that passes before me and is yet to come.