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.

In the Winter of the Soul

“He who lives in hope dances without a fiddle.”
Unknown

In the winter of the soul
Reach from your cold room toward a window
Reach toward a cracked door
Reach forward, reach outside that room
To a warm and sun-filled place beyond yourself

In the winter of the soul
Reach—pull—climb out of the dark places
Stretch to the light—to help—to hope
Look out, look up to the source of all comfort,
And love will shine in on you, and you will grow.



We might have a strong consolation, who have fled for refuge to lay hold on the hope set before us: which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast…
(From Hebrews 6:18-19  KJV)

Kansas

Like a wheel 
Of one of many covered 
Wagons which
Once lined this old town’s streets
Before bricks paved them
Before substantial buildings 
Took up residence and 
Stores opened
Along them
Snowfake 
Heralding Christmas
Snowflake
Never falling, never melting
Snowflake
Sparkling blue at night
Blue starburst
Snowflake
Above a dusty Kansas street
Holding up the bold blue
Sky. 

Snow Bell

The Noble Snowbell

The farm bell froze in place during the last winter storm. Ice coated the pull rope and snow formed a dome on the housing. Icicles hung from the rim. The bell would not ring.

The grandchildren love our farm bell. We let them have a chance to sound it to call Grandpa in from the orchard or the older kids from the creek. Some of them can’t reach the pull rope yet so we hold them up or have them stand on a lawn chair. The sound often startles them; they never expect such a BIG sound. But the word bell comes from the word bellow and we moms have all heard one or two of those.

Perhaps we have been the ones bellowing!
The frozen snow bell didn’t make a sound. It was stuck like a writer with writer’s block. It was stuck like a mom who can’t tell what to cook for supper. It was stuck like an artist facing an empty canvas; like any human trying to be creative can become stiffled.
Then the sun came out after the storm passed. Soon the icicles fell and the heap of snow slid off the wrought iron. The ice on the rope dripped and dribbled down to the base of the pole. The bell was free and sat waiting for a tug to make it sound again. Its call of “Come in for supper,” and “Come back to the house,” and “someone’s waiting for you,” rang sweetly again!
The cold places in our lives can often leave us feeling ignoble (common or low) rather than the noble persons God called us to be. The warmth of God’s grace and mercy comes though, like the sun on the bell, when we pray and seek him. It thaws us and melts away the cold that surrounds us and stops us. God frees us from the aching cold of our own selfishness and allows us to be useful again.

Let the bell ring sweet and loud!

Snow Bell

The Noble Snowbell

The farm bell froze in place during the last winter storm. Ice coated the pull rope and snow formed a dome on the housing. Icicles hung from the rim. The bell would not ring.

The grandchildren love our farm bell. We let them have a chance to sound it to call Grandpa in from the orchard or the older kids from the creek. Some of them can’t reach the pull rope yet so we hold them up or have them stand on a lawn chair. The sound often startles them; they never expect such a BIG sound. But the word bell comes from the word bellow and we moms have all heard one or two of those.

Perhaps we have been the ones bellowing!
The frozen snow bell didn’t make a sound. It was stuck like a writer with writer’s block. It was stuck like a mom who can’t tell what to cook for supper. It was stuck like an artist facing an empty canvas; like any human trying to be creative can become stiffled.
Then the sun came out after the storm passed. Soon the icicles fell and the heap of snow slid off the wrought iron. The ice on the rope dripped and dribbled down to the base of the pole. The bell was free and sat waiting for a tug to make it sound again. Its call of “Come in for supper,” and “Come back to the house,” and “someone’s waiting for you,” rang sweetly again!
The cold places in our lives can often leave us feeling ignoble (common or low) rather than the noble persons God called us to be. The warmth of God’s grace and mercy comes though, like the sun on the bell, when we pray and seek him. It thaws us and melts away the cold that surrounds us and stops us. God frees us from the aching cold of our own selfishness and allows us to be useful again.

Let the bell ring sweet and loud!