Seasonal Rhythms Autumn falls silent under the evening snow Sheltered seeds don winter’s coat below Spring buds pop their heads, winter snaps not yet March winds howl for spring’s warmth Worm Moon signals the nightcrawlers to rise Daylight and darkness reach a duality Equilux achieved, permafrost relents Sleepy pods shed winter’s dark cloak Pollinizers emit an earthy scent Spring pollinators take flight Sunrays titillate Terra’s loam Touching life’s impetus
Winter’s Lace
Vibrant winter blooms cast against a snowy canvas, beneath brooding skies
First snow, falling softly, Amaryllis’ view from the window, whisper-warm
A little ray of sunshine, melancholy banishment Winter jasmine.
Persistence cold dancing flurries Pansies thrive.
Deep into winter Primrose’s delightful colors, stark against the snow
Varied highs and lows, February vacillates, Snowdrops appear.
Narcissus’ beauty shines for all to see, defying winter’s hold
Colorful and sweet Pansies’ cousin, Viola, a winter survivor.
Glory-of-the-Snow, star-shaped and whimsical, greets winter’s end.
Nature’s Fury
a prelude whirlybirds in the wind bliss ignorance
whispered chaos swirls distance rumbles forewarn, sirens fill the air
wrapped by clouded storms, dark tornadoes, the March winds rumble
nature’s beauty shines from the eyes of the beholder beware of black bears
wintry winds whistling a graceful genuflection, mid-winter dance
the morning light hums dreams prance in dawn's shadow, the young at-heart dream
Death and Dementia
Fear and darkness abide side-by-side, hiding the old crone of despair. Cohorts of hatred entrench themselves against the light. Incoherent thoughts rattle the brain, searing the heart. Stirred agitation summons dementia.
Death grins from the abyss, as the human soul withers. Yet, darkness recoils at the light. The old crone flees, abandoning despair. Defeated, Death returns to the abyss.
Light dispels darkness. Love’s glow sparks hope. Life embraces the soul.
Winter folds a tree-- into a counterfeit death gray, bony, lifeless. Better than Starbucks, February 2022 Publication p. 41
Imagine
Sitting on the back porch swing, high in the Ozark Mountains, I feel the last remnants of the cool morning breeze wafting in. The deciduous trees that blanket the rolling hills vibrate with vibrant colors. White clouds hang in the pale blue sky, hinting at rain in their underbelly.
Tree limbs sway gently in the wind, and leaves rustle momentarily before falling silent. A red-headed woodpecker glides past, wings outstretched as it easily navigates the air currents. With slight turns among the branches, it soon disappears.
Birds sing their early morning melodies, hidden from sight. From the clouds above, shaded areas dot the mountainside, providing a cool retreat from the day’s heat. As nature dances in the wind, life thrives in the warmth of the sunlight.
Yet, amidst this bountiful backdrop of life stands a stark contrast: a giant dead stick, gray, bony, and lifeless. Its haggard branches extend outward, out of place, and exposed. This lifeless form yearns for the cloak of winter, embodying a facade of counterfeit sleep.
Winter’s Deep Sleep
winter's shield hoarfrost, snow blanket survive or succumb
silence broken winter creaks lost footfalls
relentless onslaught freezing, thawing, footfalls of a screed heart
[relentless onslaught of a screed heart freezing, thawing, lost]
safely tucked under subnivean snow, revealing rain
snow falling lightly
dreams prance on silver moonbeams, nestled deep, all sleep
Night Treasures
the night sky frolics under silvery moonbeams in stillness, dreams come
dancing in joyous leaps, dreams skate on imaginative trails, hidden sky treasures
night recedes behind the stars no thought to pending troubles, tomorrow sleeps
wintry winds whistling a graceful genuflection, mid-winter dance
Winter Solstice
motionless sun the darkest moment light breaks through
climactic pause night tide meets at Winter's gate light concatenates
the sun stands still, a brief magical moment winter begins
Psithurism Wind
burnt, buff, earthy, ushering in sienna hues, autumn's display
a shimmering dance a seasonal rain blurred lines
tree whispers back-porch sharing changing seasons
leaf-whistles, needles oscillate in a psithurism wind
wintry winds whistling a graceful genuflection, Autumn's last dance
Eventide falls on one mountain range as dawn rises on another.
Apposite
morning’s blush slips through the mizzling mist
The Troubadour's Song
As Judas, in his willful rejection, walked daily beside Jesus, a contrasting hope was about to be born. Judas’ callous heart longed for an earthly king, which led to betrayal with a sealed traitorous kiss.
Blind ignorance prevailed. The Pharisees denied their Messiah, and Jerusalem cried out, unable to see.
A despairing loss, overcome by fear, caused hope to flee. Peter denied Him. Overwhelming grief filled John. He could not contain his tears as his Messiah died. Dementia cried out. Darkness enveloped the cross as death’s grip shook the earth.
We, too, walk daily beside the true Messiah, unmoved by the truth and unable to see the light of hope.
With a heightened sense of loss and impending danger, man’s despair descended to hell’s depths. Their dreams captured by death, nailed to an old wooden beam. A tragic story with an untold ending.
Yet,
The morning light hummed with renewed hope. The eternal, wrapped in clay, set Terra free. The Troubadour sang, illuminating the darkness with the song of salvation.
A dream no longer, the day wakes with understanding. His message rang true: a gift of grace freely given.
The church’s song is the gospel story of God’s eternal plan. When the harvest is complete, marking the end of the church age, Israel will again have a hand in redeeming man.
IF
A question, If rain no longer fell, would tears cease to flow? If blue dropped from the sky, would a smile return? If darkness engulfs the world, would light find its way? If longing is understood, would yearning fade? If sadness disappeared, would you be free?
An Answer Rev. 21:4 I will dry your eyes; I am the world's light. Isaiah 41:13 I will help you when cannot cope. God will carry you in His hand. Ps 119:105 Your word will guide my feet and light my way. Eph 6:11 Armor up, God will stand by your side. Ex 14:14 I will fight your fight. Deut. 31:6 I will hold you tight; you belong to Me Ps 56:8 I have bottled all your tears. You are free.
An Epic Event
Snow blanketed the landscape with deep, powdery white flakes. This was not the typical crusty flurries that barely make a snowman, but perfectly delicate snow so fluffy and light that it beckoned you to step out and play. Icicles hung in a row across the roof. The trepidation about a significant winter event melted away by a sense of wonder at the beauty of this rare snowfall.
Birds swirled and swooped, forming a collective. A round of robins landed in the backyard. An echo of mockingbirds congregate on the limbs of an old River Birch tree out front. A conclave of cardinals sat along the fence row, as a cloud of blackbirds landed in the trees behind the fence.
It was this sight that piqued my curiosity—birds gathering in unusual clusters. Yet, they seemed to be ignoring the scattered birdseed. Why? The ground was covered in snow and devoid of food. It was as unusual as a fifteen-inch snowfall for hungry birds not to eat. This was fascinating to watch. Clueless as to why the birds waited, the answer came suddenly.
A robin swooped in to catch a water droplet from an icicle in mid-flight. Adding to the intrigue, other birds joined in.
With their usual water sources frozen, birds migrated in flocks, searching for water. As I filled water trays and scattered them around the yard, I saw a bigger picture of nature's workings. A simple solution to the problem was provided. Still, it was a rare moment to witness the shared struggle for survival in the face of adversity. The birds drank, ate, and then disappeared.
Though clueless, God was not. Seeing a bird catching a water droplet in mid-air was fantastic and incredible. But more importantly, it was my clue to see an epic event. Cold, still, frosty white
The glistening sun stirs, icicle droplets drip amid a frozen field.
Winter’s fountain flowing freely, ready for an acrobatic display; cardinals drink mid-stream.
The first time I saw a dead body was in the woods. Uncle Rufus open coffin sat where the porch swing once hung. The rusted ceiling bolts reminded me of what once was. That old dingy porch framed a poignant image. Unintentionally, I took a mental snapshot. I stood and stared. Death barred the doorway entrance. The splattered sunlight melded with the shadows. The white wood planks faded into the background as if engulfed in sadness. The inner light was gone. Only a shell remained. Nature reclaims what it intends. Yet, life lives on where memories flow like a sweet bension between the falling rain--
quiescent tide, the porch-swing rhythmic pace- tealights fade --
First Encounters First Encounters
The first time I ever saw a dead body was in the woods. The open coffin sat where the porch swing once hung. The rusted ceiling bolts served as a reminder of what once was. The porch framed a poignant image. I took a mental snapshot unintentionally.
I stood and stared. Death barred the doorway entrance as the splattered sunlight melded into the shadows. The white wood planks faded into the background, engulfed in the past. The inner light was gone. Only the shell remained. Nature reclaims what it intends to, sending life's events to where memories flow.
As we headed southeast from Memphis, Tennessee that morning, I had no idea what a funeral entailed. The paved roads gave way to winding backroads layered with gravel and dust. Hours stretch as time slows its pace. You weren’t allowed to ask, “Are we there, yet?”
After a few wrong turns, my aunt remembered the landmark and turned toward our destination. Traveling the backroads of the Mississippi hill country was not meant for newcomers. Country folks have no need for road signs. They get by with a few landmarks and directions as the crow flies.
Great Uncle Rufus was my Papaw's brother. I noted the same pointy nose as mine. Milling about, I listened to whispered stories: sad, funny; yarns and tall tales. Still, people act odd in the presence of death standing on the doorstep. Some ignore the open coffin and pass through the doorway. Some, like me, keep their distance.
Cousins departed for the clearing. Blue sky peeked through the trees, and sunlight warmed our insides. Time giggled along with us as we told our stories. Death remained on the porch which was comforting for a nine-year-old.
From a mischievous twinkle to the shape of a nose to a familiar gait, the past is intertwined with the future. Lessons taught, lessons learned, favorite recipes, a hand--me--down quilt, family stories, and my family nose. Everyday routines are instilled and handed down to the next generation.
faded white wood planks engulfed in quamoclit, a reclaimed quiescent
Slowly evanescing time spins memories of you
mental snapshot framed a poignant image old dingy porch
Haiku format:
Faded white wood planks engulfed in quamoclit, a reclaimed quiescent
Rusted ceiling bolts serve as a reminder of the porch swing
Now, the open coffin sits. Sending life's events to where memories flow.
The inner light gone reclaimed by nature, only the shell remains.
YET> Past lives on in family stories, recipes, my nose- as treasured memories.
I was nine years old This is my story - retold.
a prismatic wash in a golden mist- a sweet bension between the falling rain.
Faded white wood planks
engulfed in quamoclit,
reclaimed quiescent
The first time I saw a dead body was in the woods. The open coffin sat where the porch swing once hung. The rusted ceiling bolts served as a reminder of what once was. That old dingy porch framed a poignant image. Unintentionally, I took a mental snapshot.
I stood and stared. Death barred the doorway entrance. The splattered sunlight melded with the shadows. The white wood planks faded into the background as if engulfed in sadness. The inner light was gone. Only a shell remained. Nature reclaims what it intends to, sending life's events to where memories flow.
Haiku format:
Faded white wood planks
engulfed in quamoclit,
quiescent and quaint.
Rusted ceiling bolts
serve as a reminder
of the old porch swing
Now, the open coffin sits.
Sending life's events
to where memories flow.
The inner light gone
reclaimed by nature,
only the shell remains.
YET>
Past lives on in
family stories, recipes, my nose-
and treasured memories.
I was nine years old
This is my story -
retold.
brontebrown2 
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