My parent’s yard is framed by trees,
a swaying boundary, drizzled with winter rain.
The gentle fog rises, where snow gives up color and form,
and dad’s perfect lawn-mower lines poke through the white
and disappear into leaves and branches and the bodies of dry bracken.
How do you frame a life?
in cement and roads,
in news shows and blaring music,
in stubborn view and arms crossed over your chest?
Come to the sun room with me
and see how trees always look up,
boughs teasing bird-wings as they swoop past
allowing wind and flight to move them,
and lend the ability to stay
to such inevitable and ephemeral things.
Find the entire poetry collection This Nurturing Awe: Poems Inspired by the 99 Beautiful Names of God at