Dear Monty,

The garden has become a skid rink - a slippery surface of mud - much like many other gardens. Nature does her thing beyond our control.

Rain, mud but no blood.
Nothing lost
Peace of mind is still intact
Though battled and bruised
And sometimes mistaken
Wrong in fact.
I bring to mind storms calmed by a voice
But storms they are and were
And ever shall be.

One day of winter
Frozen in a moment
A friend suggests capturing its light in a painting.
With this thought at this very moment of writing
The sun breaks through the clouds
Like an answer
That's right it says
Reverberating inwardly
Like Monet in his garden.

What does it matter if the earth was created in 6 days or 6 billion years ?
What is a year ?
What is time ?
Yet another thing we try to pin down
To quantify
In order to be distracted from being
We love counting.

God is not a counter
Not bounded by borders
Not a respecter of persons.

The trees frozen in a white moment will be painted.



  1. Hi Paul: Just wanted to let you know how much I've been enjoying your poetry. Love the poignancy and care apparent in your words.


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