The Early Morning Call

So much can be read into the early morning call made not too early and be the cause for the rising but not too late and be the casualty of the non-response.

So it is placed carefully timed precipitated, crystallized…. by the unexpected sighting from the evening before. A view of grace, beauty, intrigue accentuated by the glow of evening summer sun.

Sitting….but not alone with another potential suitor. The biting sting and sudden realization of what might take place? or worse! Taking place before my anxious eyes. Oh no, what have I done?

It begins - the causal hello the gentle probe the seemingly benign ante and easy exchange seeking all the time to discern whether the early morning response might be receptive to more than just this early morning call?

But Why?

I drag my tired body

Arise from my deep, warm bed

I grab my gear for running

And embrace the dark ahead

But why?

The quietness of the morning embraces me

The smell of harvested wheat drifts toward me to my left

A rhythmic click of the freight train awakes me to my right

The sweeping majesty of the black spruce guards me from above

The firmness of the earthen path provides steady assurance below

The expanding glow of the eastern sky beckons me from beyond

The first signs of a gentle breeze assure me of a fine day ahead

A growing warmth of my body informs me that all is well within

My awakening brain is flooded with memories and new ideas

The reassuring strength of a strained muscle issues no further call

A quickening pace now flows with growing ease

The half-way point soon appears and reached And time to turn for home.

I return with re-charged mind and body

My room now filled with light

No questions or search for reason

The ‘why’ no more in sight.

All Things Must Pass

Days pass, alas….

Weeks pass, alas……

Months pass, alas……. Soon another year, alas……

Send me your ……. address. I will send you my ……. redress. Alas.

And soon, alas That too …….will pass.

And It came to pass….

Picking Stones or…. My Daily Struggle

Some fields grow the finest wheat, Flour for bread and scones. Other fields struggle to produce, Naught but thorns and stones.

Each spring they mysteriously emerge, Was there an ‘evil’ call? No matter how we cleared and picked, Last year before the fall.

Some you lift and some you drag, All leave reluctantly. We toil for days and days to clear, These fields to be stone-free.

This task so bland, such small reward, What meaning to be found?

To wit: these stones now rest in peace, And you have gained some ground.