Words haven’t found me this week.
I tried to wrangle some into a few lines and they bolted and scattered
and worked themselves into tangles
like vines climbing corn in the field.
Didn’t feel ready or good to my heart, the things I wanted to say.
Like the persimmons by the creek,
fleshing out but still too bitter.
So I’ll share these light bits of morning and glory
waiting for unforced rhythms of grace
Because I really like letting ripe happen.
And it’s beautiful when things open and unfold
in their own sweet time.
To everything – turn, turn, turn
there is a season – turn, turn, turn
and a time to every purpose under heaven.
“To everything there is a season….”
I’m so glad to send a copy of my September issue of Ripplesongs
to Susan Etole, whose own lovely spirit has lifted mine
for so many times and seasons.