For My December

Let love's green phrases
Return an April crocus
To tip its sun-cup.

Christmas Pastoral

No artist stitched with a frosted thread
The night for the Magi who journeyed far,
Nor decked the shepherds with snow ... Instead
Were lilied-hillsides with overhead
A cradle moon and a moving Star.

December Violets

Love does not wait till blue wings flash

To bid the heart to sing;

Till fluting larks and swelling buds

Announce the proof of spring.

Love knows no season boundaries,

Gives lilacs in November

And gathers April violets

In crystal-cold December.

Winter Carolers

The old Black Willow is a singing harp

With blackbirds strumming on its fragile strings.

December's moaning winds are drear and sharp

Yet symphonies bring cheer that echoing rings

On frosty air. I love these carolers

That make a lilting spring of winter days:

A hopeful prophecy; each throat avers

That life is sleeping. August sunset-rays

In spread wings give the joy of warning skies.

I love these melodies! They bring to me

My childhood hours, my father's youthful eyes.

He loved them as I do. In memory

We listen to their songs. He often said,

"These warblers bring us hope when spring has fled."

In My Winter Garden

She was little and wrinkled
And her hair was white
As the snow at her feet,
But her eyes were bright
As Black-eyed Susans--
With butterflies flitting--.
She spoke: nymphs of joy
Pirouetted, outwitting
The coldness of winter.
She said with a smile,
"How lovely that summer
Is resting awhile
Beneath all this beauty
White-sculptured in snow!"--
Now, in my winter garden
Black-eyed Susans grow.

Hon. Men. in Archer "People in Winter" Contest

A King Is Born

Prelude--Joseph Ponders
And Joseph pondered and was sad of heart

For his beloved Mary was with child.

Her virgin purity! (His teardrops start.)

Her uncrushed-petaled-sweetness, and her mild

Sweet womanhood seemed suddenly as naught!

He could not understand, but this he knew:

He would not shame her openly. He thought

To put her quietly away. When to

His harassed thoughts a Heaven-sent answer came--

An angel, smiling, said, "Be of good cheer

For that which Mary bears partakes no shame--

A Son of God, born to a virgin here."

So Joseph pledged her troth, and love and peace

Were theirs while waiting for the Lord's increase.

To Bethlehem

Upon the little donkey Mary rode

With Joseph striding manfully beside.

The little creature sensed a sacred load--

Was Mary not his kindly master's bride,

Now delicate in health! He picked his way

And stumbled not, avoided every stone.

He loved to hear her laugh, but as the day

Wore on, he often heard a stifled moan

Within her patient yet pathetic voice.

Her Joseph's smile would cheer her, and his kiss,

His "Courage, Mary," bade her to rejoice.

(Could Heaven, she wondered, be more dear than this!)

Her babe would wear a kingly diadem--

They must push on and soon reach Bethlehem.

Nativity

The little donkey did his very best

But every movement brought a cry of pain,

Then Joseph took her in his arms to rest,

But very soon they started on again

For Mary urged, "Press on. My infant son,

He must be born where prophets have forsaid,

In Bethlehem." And when, their journey done,

There was no room for Mary ... nor a bed ...

She went exultant, sweet, but not forlorn,

Began travail with only Heavenly king.

So in a hay-filled manger He was born--

The King of Kings--amid a stable's din.

The little donkey gave a reverent nod,

For he had carried here the Son of God.

Thanksgiving

There is assurance
In a head bowed low
With worn hands folded
In a pattern old hands know
Before a table
Spread with simple fare--
There is assurance
In a grateful prayer.

America, I Sing My Praise

Beneath the Eagle's outstretched wings, I view
Your greening acres of democracy,
Your lilied fields of peace. Held in God's hand,
You are His ensign to the troubled world!
For hallowed by the Pilgrim Fathers' prayers,
Your land is HOME to all who enter through
Your open gates illumined by the Torch
Held high--
America, I sing my praise!
Your heart, a chalice high uplifted, brims
With love for little children; (Hear their laughter,
Their dancing footsteps down your avenues.)
For star-tall youth with eyes where dreams are mirrored;
For elder ones who drink fulfillment's wine.
On those grown fragile, gently do you place
A silver crown, then on the last dim trail
You lead them safely to the Gates of Dawn.

Your love is all-embracing, and your arm
Is long to reach across the sea to feed
The hungering. Your tender heart is torn
By might's cruel lash ... Now when, in love, your voice
Asks but a simple thing: Peace for all people,
We whom you nurture rise and give our pledge
To build a shrine of love inviolate
Within the Temple of Humanity.

Miracle of June

I never knew how lovely June could be

Wearing a lei of roses as she danced

Along my winding paths of stepping stones

Till I returned and saw her beauty-robed

Through city-weary eyes. I laughed with her

To see a butterfly of silver poised

With wings uplifted on an Iris bloom

Of palest pink. With her I stood beneath

A blossoming apple tree and heard the song

Of love and mating from a lark's glad throat;

Then listened to the rhythmic melody

The little river sang. I filled her arms

With lilacs; wove a coronet

Of Lily of the Valley for her hair.

Beneath the old Black Willow I forgot

Enchaining years and tripped the bridal waltz.

Till I returned with city-weary heart,

I never knew the miracle of June.

In Lilac Time

I see the wonder still in Granny's eyes

And breathe the scent of lilacs in her room

As she recrossed the plains with desert skies

Parching the sands. Caressing sprays of bloom,

She reminisced: "What joy to know a part

Of springtime in our beautiful Nauvoo--*

A lilac root--was in the handmade cart

Pulled by my John and me to flower-strew

The cabin we would build on prairie sod."

The miracle of bloom taught Gran love's way

To turn grief's path of tears to lead to God;

To whisper secrets in a bride's bouquet;

To walk with beauty. When a killdeer-chime

Was her 'clear summons to God's friendly loam,'

She closed her eyes to rest in lilac time,

Holding a spray of lilacs to take Home.

*(Nauvoo, a city in Illinois.)

April-Blue

(To The Word Weavers)

I was a stranger,

Cold,

Alone in the crowd.

Trembling,

I feared the loud,

Harsh music of life.

When her foot was on the soft pedal,

I heard you call in friend-syllables.

Answering, I knew

That winter's steel-cold eyes

Would soon be April-blue.

April on Southwind

A white steed canters into view--
A gay staccato drumming!
The music, a lark-retinue,
Announces April's coming.

Oh, very lightly does she ride--
The silver hooves are prancing--
For is she not the earth's new bride
Who comes with song and dancing?

April Begins Her Review

Warm fingers all gently are tapping

Their rhythm on glad window-panes.

Bright goblets of gold are refilling

With diamonds of crystalline rains.

Joy's horsemen are merrily riding.

With magic in each silver hoof,

Their steeds are now galloping, prancing,

And stamping on each sunning roof.

They dance on the meadow-pavilions

Fresh-carpeted emerald green

Gold-sprigged, by the weaver of beauty,

And starred with white clover between.

The voice of the southwind announcing,

The music, a lark-retinue,

With gay crocus footlights, illuming,

Blond April begins her review.

April Returns

Breaking through doors of Winter, leaving his crystal castle,
Waking the sleeping earth with musical chimes of hope,
Lightly, she runs through valleys, calling to trees and rivers;
Brightly, she flower-carpets all of her glad domain.

Singing, the quaking aspens tinkle their bells of silver;
Winging through greening trees, a flash of cerulean blue;
Older, the spring-drugged robins come to their waiting maple;
Bolder, the wrens return to find a wee house for rent.

Falling, the joyful raindrops sing of the laughing prairies;
Calling, a lark-flute spills a fountain of splashing stars.
Twilight, and bullfrog-anthems restfully chant contentment;
Skylight illumined softly, echos a killdeer-dry.