The greatest story that was ever told
has naught to do with soldiers, brave and strong.
It makes no boast of golden treasure found,
nor causes lost, nor valiant battle song.
Death is a many-splendored thing;
especially when it ends.
The shroud is shed; the raised heart sings
and everyone pretends
Photo by Robin Lyon on Unsplash
Beware the charming Christmas squirrel.
He gathers nuts and such.
His look is soft and fluffy, but
don’t trust the rogue too much.
A little bird flew in my window,
much to my surprise.
He watched me rather quietly,
a question in his eyes.
It’s music I remember most of all.
Soaring strains of winged Tchaikovsky,
brought to earth by steady beat
of wooden cane against a parquet floor.
Stand beside me.
Make me stretch
my branches high,
transcend the morning sky
with me; don’t count
my rings and ridges.
Thrust in the sickle, the land is rich,
and the fruit thereof is sweet.
The labor of love has been performed;
the cycle is complete.
