Not waiting

Dearly Beloved, Grace and Peace to you.                    

The trees are not waiting, as I am, for spring.

The snowmelt falling without guile into the brook, why should it be mindful of dark Atlantic currents, clouds rising and sweeping within weeks along the steppes? It's only dropping with its pure plop into this black water spinning under the cedars.

The trees are not waiting for spring or even a sunny day. They are not patient. They do not know. They stand, as I am, knee deep in snow with their little buds in their hands, attentive to the press of bird or breeze, or none, upon their limbs and sing one note at a time in their vast, unfolding song of praise.

                    Deep Blessings, Pastor Steve

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