Poetry

by Cecelia Ann Harris


Wind

Wind winds itself around my door
With a muffled, rushing, whining roar
And whirls itself among the trees,
Collecting dust and brittled leaves,
Depositing them in cornered lots
And other bare, unnoticed spots.
Sometimes a wind runs through my mind
Collecting all the dirt and grime
Accumulated there and whisks it away
Until sometime when my thoughts should stray
I’ll find it again, and try to recall
How it ever entered my mind at all.

Time for the Gulls

It’s time, Father,
For the gulls, I think.
My arms shake
From flailing my field.
I sink,
Broken as the little stalks
Beneath their devouring burden.
I yield it all to you,
Who alone can touch all things.
It’s time, Father,
For the gulls.
I will be still,
And listen for their wings.

Eat, Drink

I taste the broken bread
And remember Jesus fed
The multitude.
The meager food,
Five loaves, two fishes,
By Him blessed and brake
Filled five thousand.
The cup to my lips I press …
I remember the Savior’s rest
By the well,
And hear him tell
The Samaritan women,
“I give living water,
And whosoever drinketh
Shall never thirst again.”