A palm tree touches the
East-facing window,
Whispering of time . . .
And seasons.
Three fronds crown its head,
Each a portion of a life’s work.
One is husky,
Seasoned by ocean winds,
Heat and salt.
Evergreen dark, thick, opaque,
It is bent by . . . experience,
Frayed at the ends.
But with the reverence
And calm Hosannas
Of a saint on long pilgrimage,
It bows
In the breathless instant
Before the sun breaks the horizon
And climbs the sky for another
Work day.
The second, a princely frond,
Is . . . translucent in
Morning sun, apple green,
Perfectly formed, arched with grace,
Each leaf supple, upright, and symmetrically
Fanned from a stem so strong
It greets the sun like a warrior at the gate,
Attentive to the Captain’s call.
Above these two, like a sword to heaven,
A fledgling frond waits,
Cabbage-like,
Tight-bound,
Singularly quiet.
It hopes for the day of unfurling,
The moment it splits its gray-green scabbard.
And splinters into sticky, milky,
Newborn leaflets that the wind
Will knock open.
Then it will join its siblings
In the given job of morning-song.
Seasons,
You and I are creatures of
Seasons –
Of hope
Of strength
Of pilgrimage –
Crafted perfectly for just this moment
In our span of service
To the King of the Morning Sun,
Made beautiful in His time.
~
Ecclesiastes 3:11 He has made everything beautiful in its time.
The Pen of a Ready Writer 