Weak hand writing and prompts randomly applied

Daybreak, birdsong, leaf chatter: the things that do not care about the things that matter to you. That sliver of moon last night, the handful of fireflies under the maple. The rain that falls right now, telling stories – what it has always said before, but more urgent.

In the foggy dawn
we walk, chatting
about what we always
chat about: world problems
oddities of the town,
our own somewhat broken
but grateful hearts.

We carry these things
like a lit candle
careful to use the heat,
the light and the hesitant
life the flame holds.

~~~

The hummingbird comes to the window, looks at its own perfection, turns left and right admires that fiery red throat, the iridescent green and for one moment the swoon nearly knocks him out.

~~~

A prayer of protection against the night

I have changed and now
know a kinder language
then some I have uttered.

Once those syllables let go,
moths into a candle-fed
room, where each word flared.

~~

"I'll go through the closets and cupboards to find things for auction..."

        ~~Jane Kenyon, Church Fair

Two soup spoons, mismatched

an old silk tie

my tithe has grown small.