Waiting

How I love
this huge, steadfast tree,
witness to much of my miniature life,
how she waves,
gently or fiercely eager, her arms
a sway of possibility and passion.

Although for now she is perfectly still;
she wants to hear the birds sing.
I listen too, as I sit here,
waiting for something, it seems –
a rainbow perhaps,
or answers to impossible questions.
I smile,
and secretly wave back.

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Song of Compassion

How weary the tree looked today.

as if a dull ache in

every chilled, naked arm,

joyous acceptance of change

worn thin;

(we all have our moments, well I do).

And then a small bird

carrying a huge song landed,

and so accurately too,

on wafer thin branch,

sang its even bigger heart out

long enough to feel a

sway of pleasure

under its tiny feet

and away it flew,

hope restored.

That Day

Very late August 118

The feeling you can’t explain
when everything seems just right
and nothing could be wrong,
even though you have a list
as long as your arm
of things you would want to change.

But not on that day
when the bee dived headlong
into an unknown depth,
stayed for unconscionable time,
then emerged intoxicated,
head to toe in smudges,
powdery white – hint of blush.

And when birds sang from the
very tops of swaying trees,
because praise calls out to be sung
from the highest point.
So where else would they go
to sing their own precious song

that filled me with so much joy
on a very special day,
special only because it simply was,
and made all the more precious
because I knew only too well that
like most things in this world
it was going to end,
not in a blaze of glory way
as is often the case,
but softly handing itself over
into a comforting, slowly darkening
in-between space.

Very late August 123

Wendy L. Macdonald

My faith is not shallow because I've been rescued from the deep.

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