The Romans 12 Cycle: Teacher

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In the lavender

By the lake I write the

Stories. Very few will ever read. Too busy

With the summer sun to learn.

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Autumn annotates

The footnotes of falling leaves.

The mountains are my 

Tablet. I write with the ink

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I sip hot coffee

By the fire, a book in hand.

I thread the needle

With my  tinder thoughts in the

Winter land’s cold hard facts.

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Speak forth the gentle

Green of reason threaded through

The broken mirrors.

Pieces make sense reflected in

Reality’s tapestry.

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I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Unmasking the threads

To the finished work, God’s hand

 

 

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Morning Direction From Scripture 11-19-19

Lord, you are the God who saves me;
    day and night I cry out to you.
May my prayer come before you;
    turn your ear to my cry.

I am overwhelmed with troubles
    and my life draws near to death.
I am counted among those who go down to the pit;
    I am like one without strength.
I am set apart with the dead,
    like the slain who lie in the grave,
whom you remember no more,
    who are cut off from your care. Psalm 88: 1-5

When you are overwhelmed what do you need to do to come back to your quiet center?

Evening Meditation 11-18-19

Lord, you are the God who saves me;
    day and night I cry out to you.
May my prayer come before you;
    turn your ear to my cry.

I am overwhelmed with troubles
    and my life draws near to death.
I am counted among those who go down to the pit;
    I am like one without strength.
I am set apart with the dead,
    like the slain who lie in the grave,
whom you remember no more,
    who are cut off from your care. Psalm 88: 1-5

What are some things that keep you from crying out to God?

The Romans 12 Cycle: Servant

I stir lemonade,

Sigh and wipe my weary brow.

I wax thankful then

As summer solicits for

The seasons’ warrant.

Rake the leaves. I’ll burn

This body to dust, if that

Is what it takes. I’ll

Do it gladly. My heart is

Woven in the mountain skies.

I am winter’s snow.

You will find me in the work.

No matter how dark it

Gets, I will be the finger

Which pulls the thread no one sees.

In Secret Spring’s green

I snip the weak threads. I break

The mirror. I sweep 

The pieces into place. Glimpse

Reality’s tapestry.

I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Who work the threads leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.

The Romans 12 Cycle: Prophet

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A hot summer day,

Once again I read someone

Else’s mail. Sipping

Lemonade as I crochet

Edges of reality.

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The leaves fall. As I

Count the dry bones, I breathe forth

The silence of death

Woven from mountains and skies

Which hem in the Beloved.

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My breath twines with snow

Yet to come. They rebuke me

For seeing the dark,

But what choice was I given?

The winter is my needle.

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Spring’s my thread of green.

New like the shards of broken

Mirrors. Pieces placed

Like manifold wisdom, glimpse

Reality’s tapestry

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I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Who count the threads leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.