Great Treasure Hunt

A sparkling
dew speckled web
between
telephone wires.

A rushing stream
under
a quiet bridge.

Maple leaves,
freshly fallen,
compost-able
autumnal rubies
and
golds.

A newt, friendly,
fiery red,
and
speckled.

The morning fog
hovering over
a country road
and
fields of corn,
leaves rustling.

There are
so many
gifts God left for you
in today’s
Great Treasure Hunt.

How many other
tiny treasures
can you find
tucked
within
this

priceless
delicate
day?

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Light

Flip a light switch,
and
– B A M –
illumination.

There’s no rushing
a sunrise.

The sky blushes
an hour,
maybe
more,

before the shy morning sun
considers
peeking
above the horizon.

This Light
nourishing
the whole world

will take

a          l      o      n      g           t      i      m      e

to illuminate

everything.

Self-Portrait

I am not a saint.
I am a sacred sinner,
made of
the same
flawlessly imperfect
shattered stardust
as the rest of us.

I am special
in all the world:
A unique snowflake.

Just like
every other
innumerable
unique snowflake
here,
caught within this

crazy blizzard.

I am in love
with paradox,

though not

two opposing points
on a straight line.

Expand the view.
Paradox
is two points
on the vast sphere
of reality:

Seen broadly enough,
Atlantic and Pacific
are connected.

I am a lover
of the Great Mystery,
a stumbling follower of

the Definite Maybe.

Friendship Psalm 3: Anniversary

I am the sea, and 
you the sand:

This love is 
the ceaseless, melodic
	conversation
of the coast.	

I leave upon your shore	
odoriferous offerings:
stinking seaweed,
rotting fish. 
	You observe
	these are 
	the beginnings
	of excellent
	compost.

I cherish
your shoreline,
	dunes shifting slightly over time
		to my tides and tempests,
	always giving of yourself,
slipping your sand into
my sea.

You adulate
my little beach offerings:
driftwood, 
	satisfyingly smooth,
seashells 
	(mostly broken),
and beach glass
	sharp edges warn way,
		azure
	catching the light.

I exult in 
your constancy,
always generously receiving
the giving of myself –
	weather changeable,
		fair and stormy.

I forever wish to return
	to your safe harbor
		that in the end,
			we may together watch the final sunset,
		reflecting to the sky,
	gratefully,
its radiant hues.

Maybe Later

Increasingly,

I am interested in the conversion
of
a single sinner.

She’s the
toughest case

I’ve ever encountered.

But I’m told
miracles do happen.

She’s sly,
an artful dodger:

“Maybe later;
I have a headache.”

This stubborn,
most reluctant

convert

is me.