Sand - A Poem

Before the Big Bang and/or the Garden of Apples, you blueprinted my body, anticipated my soul.
From the beginning of time to this time.

I am a sand dune, laid grain on grain by all of man's history, distant and obscure.
Recent generations have shaped me with a more effective, firmer shove, building short-lived castles upon me and digging protective heffalump holes.

Now, in my here time I am finally allowed to offer my voluntary submission to the often unnoticeable waves of movement and erosion.
Sometimes a stream of sand three grains wide plummeting into the tiny air hole of a buried crab.
Sometimes the whomp of a big wave (across the head), like a bulldozer, with the sense of the Creator's touch - skin to skin as the mound moves.

Later, fire will turn my sand to crystal and I shall reflect the light - as the Garden of Apples intended.

The World Waits for You, O Lord, . . .

The world waits for you, O Lord, . . .

   in its way.

Dolphins swim and jump.

Squirrels gather and giggle.

We wed, we bed, we birth,

   we whimper, we whine, we wail.

We wait in our way.

We watch, we wonder.

We wait in our way.

Whatever, whenever.

The world waits for you, O Lord, . . . 

in its way.

The Trees Are For Me

Autumn Love

by Joyce

They're my trees.

You can look, I guess.

But they are for me.

God does that, you know.

It's kind of goofy, romantic.

'Cuz He loves me.

For whatever reason, 

He loves me.

"How about orange trees today?" He says.

. . . And there you go.

"How about red trees?"

. . . Whammo!

He does yellow and even purple sometimes, too.

I say, "Schweet, but I betcha can't do blue."

He tells me there is quite enough blue already.

In the sky.  In the water.

He loves me.

The trees are for me.