Lilliputian Parade

Prairie Wilflowers

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!

Can you?

 

Storm Cellar

10295-rose27spicnic116A 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.

Trumpet Vine

Trumpet Vine

 

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.

The Old Farm

The old farm fades with yellow at the end of a hot summer. Sunflowers grow up in the fences and sneeze weed takes the pasture. Butterflies, bumblebees, cicadas, ants, honey bees, spiders, dragonflies and horseflies hover, zip, crawl, fly, buzz, and hum the moisture from the prarie grasses and wildflowers. The horses and cows graze peacefully flapping their tails at insects and ignoring the blazing sun. Farmers fill their tractors with fuel and cut and rake hay with sweaty bandanas wrapped ’round their dry throats. The bales are stacked along the north fence and firewood is split and stacked against the seeming impossibility of a coming cold snowy blowy wet harsh winter. No one on the old farm really expects the yellow will change to brown and then to white––at least not any time soon.