What I Can See


In this morning’s musing, some fractured verses came out,
instead of prose.
It’s the heavens, alright, that tell of God’s realness.
And if I spent more time looking UP,
to see what I might see,
Perhaps less of a fretful, feckless soul I’d be.

But, in the tiny corner of earth, that is mine,
I mostly look down, or gaze all around;
Too worried about tripping, too scared of falling,
With n’one to soften my tumble,
With no one to knit me together.

Yet, even with a horizontal line of sight,
or a sighing downward glance,
What I see refreshes and steadies cranky, old me.

When I look around, and see what I can see,
that level glance awakes me;
For my garden’s blooming flowers all holler back —
You weren’t the maker of me!

All that I spy with my aging eye
on today’s colorful and level ground,
Confirm more lessons to learn.
And each lesson’s worth planting now, and deep
in the garden of my autumn’s heart!

The sturdy gaiety of black-eyed Susan’s,
the vigor of cone flowers –
the lavishness of a healthy lavender,
spilling out of her boundaries with
fragrance and color –
And more  lessons they each teach, like
showing up for duty on hot, dry days.

All the while, I feel a summery breeze
Reminding me, I did not set its course.
Nor, could I ever offer its calm refreshment, or proffer such delight.

The temperance of an August morning chastened by a late-night storm;
its gentle warmth,
its calming breeze —
Now that would be a fine addition in all the beds I tend,
if only that I could; if only that I would!

Having looked around, I now I look down and see
the dogged determination of simple weeds —
Bursting through mulch;
Emerging through cracks, along concrete paths and an asphalt driveway.

Light and water reached crevices I did not perceive,
Supporting life I never thought could thrive.

It doesn’t take much to share what I enjoy — and then I taste familiar joy:
The simple pleasure a white summer peach offers,
as if full of honey, that I did not apply!

Oh – that I could cultivate all this is my autumn’s garden —
no trowel I own could dig so deep
to grow a taste so sweet.

Now I look up and see trees I did not plant;
towering round our home,
shading and cooling–
So verdant and diverse . . .

Color me now overwhelmed!

Encircled by that symphony of grace and favor,
help and mercy;
answers to a plea I didn’t know I prayed.

How good to see, to feel, to taste – how good to tell it.
When I pay attention to what is in my line of sight–
up or down, or just around.

His plants and weeds – His sun, His rain – His air.
And those He gives who help and cheer . . .

I could not orchestrate so grand a work as all that I now I see,
Could you, dear reader, when you see what you can see?

Now, let’s get off  our duff,
get going while there’s time . . .
A little weeding,
a little cultivating:
Who knows what we can grow?



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