Birds nor toil nor spin…

I’ve never read much poetry. I liked it when my son would recite “The Village Blacksmith.” But I thought I might should try it. I asked a friend and co-laborer for a recommendation, and I’ve started through a Garrison Keillor collection he suggested…too quickly, I’m sure.

But today, as I contemplated the swirling of events and my role therein, I looked out my kitchen window…and thoughts of my Loving and Pardoning God came to mind…

It’s a first effort…

With darkened thoughts I go to my kitchen
To make a cup of tea.
A glance out the window draws behind a longer gaze
At the gathered birds.
The birds who gaily storm my feeders:
One hanging on a clothesline,
A tray of seed open on the ground.

To darkened thoughts of turmoil and failure,
Real and imagined,
I must add the thought that the Father-Who-Feeds-Birds,
Birds neither toiling nor spinning…
That Father, my Father, feeds these birds as well.

And He uses me to do it.

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