dog wood

The wind still blows briskly

and the buds seem loath to appear

as April scurries past.

finally

the promise within

silver baubles

Inside the silver baubles

is the promise of tomorrows and new seasons

and new life.

and if one looks carefully,

one's self,

renewed this day, and the next....

waiting

The dreary days seem to stretch on, 

perhaps only because we've been so spoiled before.

But cold and wet and wind sculpts,

and twists and creates splendor.

april

somehow April has appeared,

 out of nowhere..

and roses stand in vases
while snow still swirls outdoors.

unexpected

Pink is not the sort of colour we expect in Indian Summer Days

yet the rose blooms spring like in front of the window 
in innocent defiance of the season.

And I wonder about the seasons in our life, 
these indian summer days of mine

when a wee soul alights beneath my heart for 5 short weeks

and then flits away to eternity and to God 
and to an Oma gone before.

And it is impossible to begrudge the beginnings of a soul

and the departure of a miniscule infant to go to her God

and be spared these seasons down below.

Still dreams began and  budded and blossomed

with thoughts of wee smiles, and dimpled hands. 
And thankfulness overwhelmed- 

that another child of God had been entrusted to me 
in these indian summer days, 

 unexpected.

  

But dreams pass

and tears honour the child 

and painful trust honours the Father.