My meadow has gone wild-flowered!
Sun slants across the meadow
Lighting the white beard-tongue petals.
They are torches
Carried though the towering grasses by Lilliputians.
The flames nod in a breeze as they’re passing;
Grasshoppers spring up from the stems of grass,
They are clowns making the earth laugh.
Butterflies flit from bloom to bloom,
They are flags aflutter.
Flowers wave in the green path
Blooms of white, yellow, orange, purple, and pink;
They are balloons carried by Lillipeeps.
I never can resist a parade!
Like a feathered bird
Little summer surprise.
Wearing a pink tutu,
Dancing in the sun and breeze.
Dandelions are the common connection of children and dreams. c e hollis
by Elece Hollis
Dandelions let us go on
wishing and dreaming.
Find a wonderful sphere
of seeds on miniature parachutes,
Full of mystery and promise,
Itself a marvel.
Make a wish.
Close your eyes.
Dream a dream.
A storm cellar is dark and cool inside and damp and musty, but it is a welcoming place during a tornado or during a storm that might gender one. When the sky turns a ghostly sick greenish-yellow, no matter how dark and close a cellar is, it is a good place to ride out the tempest.
Looks grim, yes, but when parts of houses and barns fly, nails scream from wood, and the sound of destruction howls like a freight train––when rain pours like an ocean being emptied, there is no better place to be than underground.
This old cellar hasn’t been used in many a year. It wasn’t used the night a tornado killed eight people in our small town. Its owner slept through the big blow and only found the damage next morning. God was with her, she says.
What security does your life have for traumatic times? Do you have a refuge? A cellar like this might be enough for a twister, but for some of life’s blows it won’t do. We need family, we need friends, and we need God. He is the true refuge for man’s soul. You can weather any storm in His care.
Should you ever run to a shelter in a tornado or mid one of the storms of life, as I have, I can tell you, you will want Him there.
The Trumpet Vine climbs on fence and posts. It climbs on the telephone poles.
It dresses the whole in a cascade of green accented with its orange blooms.
Bees hover near, but only certain bugs and birds have an avantage.
The ruby-throat loves the trumpet vines and so do I.
When I haven’t filled my hummer feeders I know that the tiny winged wonders will go find their sugary sips in the orange trumpets growing in heavy clusters from the corner fence posts.
God never forgets to feed them.