Daily Signet

Silken uncertitude
Dribbling off beastly brows
Sliding between unconscious fingers
Frothy flowing down, down
To puddle dumbly, uselessly underfoot.

At times, I have felt that it was too late.

Lost moments have grown into hours
Weeks pile up into months,
Mound to years
Until decades of unloving stack up around me
Shutting out the sun
the moon and stars

Too much. Too much. Perhaps all.

But then God whispers to me of Grace.

If the heaps of squandered life
Push me to the edge,
Bring me to see,
Cause me to choose
To be present in my living,
Watching intently
Receiving intensely
Using the gifts of the moment as
Venerable anchors to hold me in the now,

Then whatever was misspent through my inattention
Was not a waste,
But a boon.
A boon which has brought me to this point
of concentrated attendance.                                                    

Donna Piper Leichtling

On This Day…

Amy Lowell born 1874 in Brookline, Massachusetts, died, 1925: imagist poet, writer and Pulitzer Prize recipient. Works: A Dome Of Many Colored Glass, Men, Woman and Ghosts, Pictures of the Floating World
Quotes: “All books are either dreams or swords. You can cut or you can drug with words.” “You are ice and fire, the touch of you burns my hands like snow.” “Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.”