The heron moves gracefully like an Alvin Ailey dancer / It’s long, thin legs carefully wade forward / It’s long, neck curled and poised to …
A poem i wrote about being in Glacial lakes state park one summer evening in west central Minnesota.
When times were troubled and my heart torn / I oft used to go there, to lay them before / the One, the Creator
In the Francis Chapel there was shallow bowl of sand. Sitting beside it, a pottery piece containing small white candles and a box of matches. / Open during the day, the chapel’s door welcomed any who needed a place of solace, a quiet space to meditate, think, be still and pray. / A haven of serenity where a still small voice could be heard.
When times were troubled and my heart torn / I oft used to go there, to lay them before / the One, the Creator
In the Francis Chapel there sat a shallow bowl of sand. Sitting beside it, a pottery piece containing small white candles and a box of matches. / Open during the day, the chapel’s door welcomed any who needed a place of solace, a quiet space to meditate, think, be still and pray. / A haven of serenity where a still small voice could be heard.
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