Excavated words

Polished to an emerald green

Praise the spring morning.

Fireflies flickering,

Stars and galaxies aglow.

Lights bright in deep dark.

Misty green corn rows.

Yellow hidden, like the sun.

Shrouded by low clouds.

No words needed but

Riverbank birch trees waving

To greet us this day.

Who’s more insistent?

Crows or the river calling

For my attention.

Clockwork kayaker

Paddling over quiet blue,

Pauses for the view.

Not hidden, at hand.

Our soul purpose is to serve.

Giving while we can.

Just chipped clay vessels.

Our making and remaking

All done by Your hands.

I miss incense,

The scent of prayers rising.

Kneeling in the church.

Bells ringing from church

Echo in crisp autumn air.

Then a fire truck howls.

Two horses standing

In a field of many cows.

A crow cries aloud.

Beaches beckon us.

Their waves repeat after ours.

We are grains of sand.

Sublime summits call,

Clouds lean down to hear the sheep

Bleating to the lambs.

Snow pauses my way.

Dim light shows the path forward.

Darkness is passing.

copyright 2026 Tom Medlar