Leap

There are roads beyond the roads,
multitudes of ways,
to line the days with joy.

When song is beyond possibility
and dance is far too hard,
when words don't slip from stumbled lips
and other senses barred,
all that's done with choices gone
to show a leaping heart
is leaping hands of praise.

Other roads beyond the roads,
other styles of praise
to line the days with joy.

And you will leap
and fly your flag
and laugh until you burst.
For you have a love,
a special love,
for Him who loved you first.

 This is part of the February blog chain of writing by members of ChristianWriters.com - please see the full list  of those involved in the right hand column and visit a few of the others.

ice lace

a glistening adornment

sculpted in the night

draped from the window

laced in the jewelling of sunlight

delicate and transient

diamond ice

hand of Winter

The icy hand of Winter

points its blasts

in this direction.

Holding fingered water

in suspended animation,

crystal fluid

glazed and shining,

glinting,

in the disguise of sunlight.

There is no escape

from the cold clutching

as we slowly

become rigid in its chill.

Inside, by the fire,

the heart beats reveille,

a call to arms 

for inner warmth,

and the waking throb

of hot ache.

As in a dream

As in a dream the morning wakes;

in misted dawning

it yawns into day.

Here, in cold breathed light

and hazed vaguery,

another meeting is birthed

part formed, incomplete.

For here the story of the day

builds, with slow revelation

and receding cloud,

into unbred eternity.

Soon the thrice-crowing

of reality will steal good intention,

stain the diary with some self-filled act,

smudge the page with need.

This is a quiet place

awaiting the clamour, the gaudy voices,

of unwelcome intrusion

dusking its own darkness into the dawning.

And yet, as in a dream, the morning wakes

and holds within its gift

all possible things.