Claytonian Winter. . . .

There is nothing in the world

Aside from family and dear people

That can give you such an ennervating pause

As a single flower.

When you plant it, when you dig the earth to

Make its bed

You touch something that is as beautifully simple

As you will ever reach.

Today when you strain against the world

At some point stop and look

At that flower over there.

 

I saw a woman on the TV tonight who rode out the hurricaine on a tree Limb.  She said she will live a life of greater faith from now on because She prayed and she lived.  My problem is this:  Can't we assume that the People who lost their lives in fear and pain in that storm were also Praying for safety and release from the terrible waters?  If you believe One person was saved by God, don't you have to believe that others who Did not survive were killed by God?

Thanks for Reading.

This is the Claytonian Winter

Which is long and cold

And makes your soul weak and old

And will kill you with six whole months

Of grey and weary skies.

Sometimes the sky is the same color

As the water, as the snow on the ground

Even as the people around

Cold and grey like a battleship.

 

But in the grey there is also promise

That the sun will return from the south

That the ground will soften under your feet again

That one single wild flower will come and test the air

And return for all its kin down there.

 

I will keep moving and fight the Winter whenever

It raises its head;

Keep moving like a shark that lives on light and cool

Breeze instead of the seal-surfer dead.

This page is part of my swim to the surface, my dig through the snow to the warm light above.  I will try to write on it everyday and hopefully you may see it and comment.  This is for me, but for all of you too, for everyone who has been plowed under.

Thanks for Reading