Poem: The Next Step

The Next Step

You step out of the cavern,
your body still cool in the shadows,
your bare feet finding the first spot of sunshine,
it's warmth seeping through the skin,
dramatic in it's difference.

You stand, your eyes surveying the landscape,
lush and lively in the soft summer wind
you have not felt for so long.

You wait, allowing yourself to feel the cold
one last time, remembering it's bitterness,
the way it slowly seeped into your bones
rendering you something not quite yourself,
cold, shivering, afraid of the dark

in way that was untrue to your heart.
You wait, letting the memory flow over you,
then dissipate in the May air like dandelion seeds
and you step into the sun.

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The picture was taken at Luray Caverns just yesterday. You can click on it for larger view.

Tom

Poem: Truth

Truth

Our truth is elusive,
changing like the fragrance of a rose,
emerging with the seasons,
with each snippit
of new information,
unfolding like a bud to bloom,
like a bloom to death,
and back again.

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OK, I am busy working out west and didn't think there would be time for poetry, but somethings just burble to the top, even in the midst of so much else going on. The picture is from a greenhouse in Dorset, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

A couple of weeks away

Over the next couple of weeks, there will few, if any posts here. A combination of professional and personal issues will be taking me away from this. But soon after May 1st, I should be back.

All is well,

Tom
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The picture is of the countryside in Vermont.

Poem: Forsythia

Forsythia

Yes, it has rained for a week,
a long, indeterminate gray
that can dull the heart

seeming as if the sun
is held forever captive,
until you see

how God takes the misery
of cold March rain
and brings us... spring.

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The picture was taken outside my office in Washington DC, just this afternoon. You can click on it for a larger version. Kind of a contrast with the previous post, huh?

Tom

Poem: Winter Dies Slowly

Winter dies slowly

Winter dies slowly,
not at the hand of weather or seasons,
but from within,

a thawing of heart and fear
that comes not from outside
but from something deep down,

deep in your soul,
seeping like a warm spring
denying the ice you feel,

and replacing it
with something green,
and full of joy.

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The picture is from Troutville, Va. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: On the Anniversary of Lee's Surrender

On the Anniversary of Lee's Surrender

They stood on the porch afterwards,
Lee in his perfect gray uniform.
Grant muddy, wearing a private's shirt,
the surrender complete,

the end of four long years
of battle and deprivation,
of the sad exhilaration of war,
done.

Lee climbed slowly on his horse,
suddenly old, proud,
even as the soldiers in blue cheered.
Grant, frantic, made them cease,

honoring his foe with silence.
Of that moment, he wrote:
"Never has a man so great
given himself to a cause so false."

And now you find yourself on the point of surrender.
It matters not to what -
destiny, love, God -
and you are tempted to think yourself weak,

not seeing instead that you give yourself
to something greater, something
that can lift you up, far higher
than you would have ever risen

alone.

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Going into work this morning, I heard on the radio that today is the anniversary of Robert E. Lee's surrender at Appomattox in 1865, effectively ending the Civil War. Thinking over that moment, somewhat described here, brought out this poem.

The picture, unlike others on this site, is obviously not mine. It's a contemporary sketch of Lee leaving the McClellan house after the surrender itself, but was unattributed on the "Eyewitness to History" site.

Tom

Poem: Late

Late

You round the last curve in the road,
your eyes gritty from the long drive,
the night blurred with fatigue.

You cannot count the hours,
so many of them spent in reflection,
a look back on the journey,

not from place to place,
but from time to time, of the paths
your life has taken

the joys and pain, the unlikely twists
that led you here, to her door,
and the light that bids you welcome
no matter the hour.

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The picture is of the sign at Natural Bridge. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Easter Egg Hunt

The Easter Egg Hunt

The basket is empty throughout the year,
until now, in this season of rebirth,
it is pulled out in expectation,
excitement,

ready for the hunt, certain
that tiny treasures are there
for those that search the deep grasses
with diligent eyes.

You watch the children, restless to begin,
and see a reflection of your own life,
your own need to search the deep grasses of life
with that same sense of adventure,

of sureness of God's grace,
his loving gifts, to find his splashes of color
hidden not to be kept secret, but placed
to be found.

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The picture was taken yesterday at a church Easter Egg hunt. It was actually a mistake shot, where I hit the take button when I did not to, but somehow, it captured something of the day. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Day Before Moving

The Day Before Moving

One by one the boxes fill,
books, lamps, pictures,
the arcana of your every day life

carefully put away, packed
with care, packed and marked,
then piled one on the other

in a great mass of cardboard
in the room you used to call the library.

Each day less and less
of a lifetime of accumulation
is still accessible, and yet

you miss far less of it than you imagined.
You are comfortable with a few pans,
a few books, your desk

and your thoughts,
thoughts not of leaving this place
you have lived all your life,

but rather, of where you go,
for your past is always with you,

a warm blanket of memories,
of people you love and who love you
beyond distance, beyond time,

never really left behind.
But what lies ahead! Adventure,
a new place to live,

not just a house, but a heart
whose nooks and crannies await
exploration of the tenderest love.

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The picture was taken at the Dupont House in Longwood Gardens. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Night Train

Night Train

In the dark hours before midnight, the train whistles
and rumbles through the night, the sound
echoing across the valley, so loud and clear
that it seems to lie just outside your window.

It is only when the weather is about to change
that the sound is so very sharp and vibrant
that it causes you to look out at the starlit night,
the crescent moon and encroaching clouds and wonder

what sort of change might be coming.
Rain, cold and biting to the bone?
Or perhaps the unexpected warmth of Indian summer,
or the blustery wind that whips the leaves from the trees?

The train whistle does not answer.
"I am only the signal of change" it cries
as the brakes squeal against the steel tracks.
"Beware. And be joyful. Both."

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The picture was taken near Nace, Virginia. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom