Mid-Winter Magnificat

Astilbe, asleep beside the drive,
Peonies, cone flowers,
          day lilies,
               burrowed beneath down bits of snow, energizing, strengthening for the
                   grand appearance,
                           their pop, burst of color.
Rampant violets whose wild race about the yard
      is temporarily stilled, silent, awaiting the next season's      dance.
Pine trees, each branch iced to bending, green dresses tinged       with white swaying at the ball that is winter.

Garden soil, resting, quiet,

           readying for the unfettered abundance of tomatoes, beans.

Forest, aglitter in splintered sun,
           diamonds horizon strewn.
Flakes swirl east-west, north-south to an unheard                          symphony.
Unbroken slate of white, clean, unsullied,
           field of dreams . . . purity and perfection.
House, shingle-heavy, insulation-bound,

    nobly faces storm and completes its       mission - shelter.

     This is winter on Layton.

A waiting, a pause, a breath-holding,
     A Lazarus tomb, expectant, a resurrection in three days.
         Hope, it's coming.
              New life, warmth, green, buds, fruit.
He never fails, ever faithful, ever bringing new from old,
              ashes from beauty, life from death, growth.
The Great Maker, Renewer, will do the miracle. It will arrive . . .

             This Spring on Layton.