Upon this hill,
where God fills the river,
that tumbles down an ancient path;
chiseled passages of time,
as the river weeps
into the arms of the sea.
 
Winter’s whips let up their thrashing tracks.
Ices’ syncopated spatters trickle down, dangling
off, still supple branches of pines.
Eventually, every raindrop offers
another chance to live,
another aching hope it sows,
that She will descend to us, once again.
 
Days grow longer, the light is stronger,
and the darkness gives way.
There are leaves still green, underneath
Winter’s white cloak.
Icicles in lacey webs
of a snowy hem, drape trees,
creating grottos,
where wise men pray,
or where refugees find a place to stay.
God is in the laces of snowy places.
 
We climb the highest hills, and we feel smaller,
as snow is up to the ten foot markers,
a sedimentary geology of frozen matter
stuns us by the immensity of nature,
our lives are enlivened, or are still,
as we are in awe of His will.
Perhaps, this is the source of all God’s love…