Web of Grace by Lois Jean Guthrie

When all earth seems to sleep in drifts of snow

Suddenly a cardinal may sing

And skeletons of dead leaves madly blow

Among the newly burgeoned buds of spring;

Half past midsummer’s forenoon simmering

Sumac with one crimson leaf as plum

Becomes fall’s herald; southbound geese take wing

From frozen fields that harbor a perfume

Distilled when meadow sweet

nature bird water animal

was in full bloom;

In every season present, future, past

Are woven as if once upon a loom

Of timelessness, our own lives threads held fast

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