In the lavender
By the lake I write the
Stories. Very few will ever read. Too busy
With the summer sun to learn.
Autumn annotates
The footnotes of falling leaves.
The mountains are my
Tablet. I write with the ink
Bottled in the midnight skies.
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.
Speak forth the gentle
Green of reason threaded through
The broken mirrors.
Pieces make sense reflected in
Reality’s tapestry.
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