I Meant to do my Work Today

I meant to do my work today-

But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,

And a butterfly flitted across the field,

And all the leaves were calling me.

And the wind went sighing over the land

Tossing the grasses to and fro,

And a rainbow held out its shining hand-

So what could I do but laugh and go?

-Richard LeGallienne

The Seed Shop

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry-
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

Dead that shall quicken at the call of Spring,

Sleepers to stir beneath June's magic kiss,

Though birds pass over, unremembering,

And no bee seeks here roses that were his.

In this brown hush, a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century's streams.
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,

Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;

Here I can blow a garden with my breath,

And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

-Muriel Stuart

YWAM Minneapolis DTS (Dischipleship Training School) promo video

The Tree

I love thee when thy swelling buds appear

And one by one their tender leaves unfold,

As if they knew that warmer suns were near,

Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold.

And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen,

To veil from view the early robin's nest,

I love to lie beneath  thy waving screen

With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppressed.

And when the autumn winds have stripped thee bare,

And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow,

When naught is thine that made thee once so fair,

I love to watch thy shadowy form below,

And through thy leafless arms to look above

On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.

-Jones Very

"Heavy"

Heavy

That time

I thought I could not

go any closer to grief

without dying

I went closer,

and I did not die.

Surely God

had His hand in this,

as well as friends.

Still, I was bent,

and my laughter,

as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.

Then said my friend Daniel

(brave even among lions),

"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it-

books, bricks, grief-

it's all in the way

you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,

put it down."

So I went practicing.

Have you noticed?

Have you heard

the laughter

that comes, now and again,

out of my startled mouth?

How I linger

to admire, admire, admire

the things of this world

that are kind, and maybe

also troubled-

roses in the wind,

the sea geese on the steep waves,

a love

to which there is no reply?

-Mary Oliver