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Being
#2
Outside my window, old yet free,
Stands a dormant maple tree.
Inside my room, there’s bed and chair,
More like than not a creature’s lair.
Not a beaver, not a bear,
More a house mouse, hardly there.
One who moves with stealth and ease,
But terrified he’ll fail to please,
Or spring a trap he’s failed to see,
Just like the lost and web-caught bee.
When spring arrives the dormant tree
Will toss out leaves abundantly;
While I, still hiding in my lair,
Deteriorate into my chair,
Afraid to call on Christ like some—
You know—the beggar who cried, “Come!”
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Being
#3
Outside my window nothing’s there
Besides a maple, leafless, bare.
Now my eyes are growing dim;
I cannot see the nearest limb.
Dogwoods blossom round the town;
Forsythia wears a golden crown.
Daffodils bloom in our steep front yard,
Tulips try, but the ground’s too hard;
While in the room I’m still confined;
I would she were not so unkind.
She has two dogs and I have none;
The one I had—too soon undone!
Good Friday’s cross we all must bear,
For suffering is our lot to share.
Easter Sunday’s here at last,
Following one quite glorious fast.
Christ our Lord is risen today—
I fall down hard, trying to pray!
