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         PROSE GARDEN
               

Hope


And though the gray may crowd the morn
and push the sun back into night,
while gusts of mist may chill the soul
and whisper spring shall never come,
they are but lies who roam in packs
and search the land for friendly ears.
For blades of green will pierce the brown, 
and blooms of Hope will faith renew.



The Old Tree

These heavy limbs lean closer
to the water now
soon to embrace their final home.
This is my little pond,
this small circle of water about my feet, 
carpeted in pea-green algae.      
Nothing breaks her surface 
except the few who need to:
mosquitoes and flies,
a family of snakes
and an irritable old snapping turtle.
When I was but a sapling,
this was an ugly place, 
when I was young 
and longed to be by the fast moving stream
that was my father's.
But hard held dreams in the night
soon would melt in the morning sun
and fill my pond of peaceful little change.
Yes, there is beauty here.
There is beauty in my being here
for there is beauty in my being
where I was meant to be.