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Frosty Letters

Frost edges every blade of grass;
Freezes it into a fairyland of white,
But the oak is only beginning to drop her sculpted leaves
Drop them like handwritten letters from spring
When they first popped from buds and began growing,
When they loaded the tree with leathery green
From summer when they shaded the children playing,
When a circle of day lilies circled the tree,
From autumn when they flew like flags
When we first noticed them begin to turn brown
When they rattled and fluttered and shook in the wind.
Frost trims each letter in fragile lace
Each letter has a message to deliver to winter
A letter of seasons and hope, change, and promise.

The Doorway

The Doorway

By Elece Hollis

Stand awhile and study

Each door that faces you;

Listen just a little

To the voices coming through.

Watch who passes in before,

See who passes back too.

Find out where the door may lead;

Ask their advice–please do.

Seek the mind of Jesus

Let Him guide you true,

For all the doors that open

There will not be a few,

Will change your life forever,

Determine what you’ll do,

Who’ll you become, whose life you’ll touch

Boldly step on through!

fullsizeoutput_7accChristmas Cactus

 By Elece Hollis

She’s called a cactus––but has no spines;

She speaks between her graceful lines.

She isn’t fir or coned´pine.

At Christmas time.

 

She isn’t Poinsettia bright

Not Amaryllis––that’s alright!

 She bows her head––shy––out of sight

At Christmas time.

 

She brightens up the room each year;

Comes to bring us all good cheer.

I count her blossoming quite dear

At Christmas time.

 

 

 

Scarred but Beautiful

 

IMG_2047“We all have our scars––most gained by foolishness,

but the ones that count come from putting another’s safety above our own.” c.e.hollis

 

 The Shape of Us

By Elece Hollis

Every leaf on every tree, every plant and flower bears its unique difference and yet is recognizable. With the help of a field guide to trees, we can tell most any tree by its leaf. These leaves are begonia––each alike, and yet each possessing a set of unique characteristics. Look at  them––the veins, the colors, the edges, and the tears.

Every leaf is an individual of the plant colored by its soil and nutrients, healthy or pale, large or small, and each bears eventually some scars. We tend to want every leaf to be perfect and fit. We tend to call out for the boldest, the softest, the youngest, the straightest, the curviest. We tend to call beautiful what is the brightest, the slightest, the largest, the smallest (hypocrites we).

We call the finest and prettiest what has the least blemishes, the smallest and faintest scars. We don’t like our scars, our wrinkles, our gray hairs, our freckles. Oh, but aren’t they what makes us who we are? Don’t they show how much life we have experienced?

Jesus chose to keep his scars. His hands still have the marks where the nails were hammered through. Those scars are beautiful. True, many of our scars are there because we did foolish things or because another hurt us. Jesus’s scars are there because He loved us so. It’s the same love that chose to create each of us an original, each shape of us unique, and all of nature touched with the lovely essence of his hand.

 

Make Music

Here is an older piece I remembered posting when I saw Bonnie again recently at the Dripping Springs Rendezvous. She is a joy to speak to.

Elece Hollis.com

 “One ought, every day at least, to hear 
a little song, to read a good poem, to see 
a fine picture, and if it were at all possible,
 to speak a few reasonable words.” 
Johann Wolfgang  Von Goethe

Make Music
by Elece Hollis

Make music wherever you go;
That’s generosity.
Tap a rhythm—start the beat;
That’s leadership.

Hum and strum a melody;
That’s encouragement.

Laugh at false starts and off key notes;
That’s grace.

Sing the words out loud and bold;
That’s a gift to the world.


“Then those who sing,
 as well as those who play the flutes, shall say,
 ‘All my springs of joy are in you.'”
 Psalm 87:7

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Cactus Blossom

fullsizeoutput_7accThe Color White

By Elece Hollis

Spring is yellow forsythia and daffodils, red of tulips, hyacinth purple, white crocus, lilies and all shades of bright.

Summer is every color under the sky-blue, it’s every shade of green, white clover, and red roses a picket fence.

Fall has crimson apples, sunflowers, leaves of orange, yellow, and Sweetgum purple, honeysuckle, and white of frost on the windows.

Winter is brown and gray, but holds white of the first falling snow, white of moon’s shine and sparkling stars.

White is a country church’s freshly painted steeple, white flesh of a river trout, of salt, of a lamb’s wool

White of new cotton socks, white of sifted bread flour, white of butterfly wings and angel robes in Christmas plays.

White is drifting clouds, white of pages between the lines, of coconut milk,  a polar bear fur, of egret’s feathers.

White of a bride’s gown, a porcelain sink, powdered sugar, whipped cream for pumpkin pie, white of wave crests and thundering waterfalls,

I love white. White is every color, every place, every season––every rhyme.