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.