It is yet another cold and rainy day
The young say the earth is changing
The old say it was like this in sixty eight
Nothing is sure despite all of their conviction
Some day those now young will say
It was like this in two o' nine
The young will say the earth is changing
Nothing is certain except
It is another rainy day
Hidden
A wild rose grows beneath the oak trees
Discretely nestled under fallen leaves
That have helped it keep its secret
Some wind or bird has brought it to this place
Where its single blossom lingers unobserved
Behind a scrubby oak and aging berry
Confounding all we know of roses
While at the house the rose that is my own
Brightens the house with smiles and laughter
That replaces the sun on rainy days
Eucharistos
The gentle foreign women let the oars rest on her knees
And turned to take a photo of a lily on its pad
Then took the oars to row on to another
Shall I call her the 'lily lady?' (the hyacinths are gone).
The day as was the season was at end
The sun was low behind the hill
The water sparked
And we broke silences to speak of things
We might not speak of to another.
Such gifts are rare such honors holy
They are in many ways just like Communion
