But For Today

Sometimes, I wonder at the times to come,
The springtime waiting in the bud on the branch
    now covered with snow,
    the growing fawn in the womb of the doe.

I wonder at the times to come,
Children playing in the yard
    on the swing that granddad built
    eating cookies that grandma baked--
    turning brown-skinned in summer's sun.

I wonder at the times to come,
The new year turning to old
    and back to new again,
    time and again, until my hair is grey,
    my skin wrinkled by the passing of days.

But for today, I wonder at my grandson,
Laughing and childlike in this moment
    with wonder of his own
    at his world and all its newness
    to explore and discover.

May I be so blessed!

^©1999 Sharon Terry

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Winter Writings

Summer comes and goes
    so quickly now
    that I cannot grasp it,
    cannot hold it in my fingers.
I run to tackle it,
    jump, all fours outspread,
    as a cat leaping to catch its prey,
    but it eludes me.

The winter reaches out to me
    and holds me,
    its grip strong.
I do not pounce
    as if it were my prey.
It does not elude me,
    but forces itself upon me,
    relentlessly.
Wearing it as if
    a coat about me,
I do not fight it;
    nor do I struggle against it.
I simply wait it out,
    as if to prove who is the stronger,
    always outliving its grasp,
    never fully shedding its coat,
    for it is ever present
    on my mind.

Oh, elusive summer,
    my heart doth ache for thee.
Yet in your coming,
I see you leaving.
Coming and going as a lover
    repeatedly breaking my heart,
I embrace you no longer.
Knowing the hurt to follow,
I release you.

To you.

I simply wait.

^©1993 Sharon Terry
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A Whisper

The corn turns brown overnight,
knowing the calendar
has turned its leaf to September.

An overgrowth of greens and browns
burdens the land.
Milkweed, goldenrod, sunflowers
no longer looking at the sun,
tall grasses gone to seed.

A paintbrush spattering
of red chooses a tree here,
a tree there for display.

All things whisper,
    "Fall is coming.
        Fall is coming.
            Fall is coming."

^©1999 Sharon Terry

Dandelions

Do not malign the dandelions
for not being tulips or daffodils.
They cannot be but what they are
a herald of spring across the grass.

Their petals strewn across the lawn
like yellow pearl drops here and there.
No planted pattern do they take
But randomly select their place.

Planted by the hand of God
to bring about their parachutes to fly
whist here whist there it seems
by wind or passing trodding foot.

They are the first experience
for little hands and little breaths
with flowers that may be picked at will
with never a parent's saying, "No!"

Nipped at the stem they do not care,
for their purpose they will fulfill
as they go to seed on the window sill
forgotten there in the little vase.

So do not malign the dandelions
for not being tulips or daffodils.
They cannot be but what they are
a herald of spring across the grass.

^©2000 Sharon Terry
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