Sitting by the fire, snow gently falling

We've had a joyful Transfiguration Sunday, and now Lori and I are sitting by the fire, the snow gently falling outside. I am thinking of many friends, near and far, old and new, and very thankful.

Here is a photo Lori took a short while ago from our front porch of the Redbud tree in front of our house on the hill.

The tree is transfigured, don't you think?

"Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee"

Winter will soon officially be here. We've had several mornings up on our Virginia hill with frost on the chicken coop. Today it is warmer and drizzly. We are on the cusp of the seasons.

Here is a photo Lori took a few days ago of the sky and tree line as seen from our hill, and a poem to mark the change of seasons, sent as a gift by our friend Karen in Tennessee. May you have blessings aplenty in this Advent of expectation.

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From “Frost at Midnight”
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge


Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sunthaw; whether the eve-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Snowflakes, sunlight, miracles

As I look out the window, there is still much snow on the ground and on the roof of the garage. The sky is sharply clear, but the sun low to the ground, and shadows long. It is very cold outside. Epiphany, the feast of light, is upon us this winter day.

We are overdue for a poem this year in this space. How about two poems for the day? The first was written for today by Megan Brett, and the second comes from our friend Karen from Tennessee. Karen usually sends poems from other authors, but this one she wrote.

I like both of these a lot. Take each word a few at a time. Go slowly. May you enjoy your winter day.

Seventh of January
By Megan Brett

The wise kings have come and gone,
mistletoe and pine are down from the doorway,
and the tree, poor thing, sits outside in the cold,
nature-bare and free of its holiday dress.
The clay creche has been careful wrapped away,
and the angels have come off the mantle.
All the sparkling trappings of Christmas
gone from the house
(but not, says the hopeful Spirit, from our hearts).

33°

By Karen Claussen

lazy

flakes

of

snow

as

big

as

dreams

are

falling

ever

so

slowly,

and

I

jogging

in

the

park

with

my

dog,

am

made

witness

to

the

covenant

that

life,

despite

its

cold

its

chaos

and

its

brevity,

is

still

something

of

a

miracle